Chapter 12
The Iron Claws
“Situation report,” Ranier demanded as he lit up a cigar outside the gates of Porjea. The new recruit, who was mostly now his assistant, rushed to his side with a notebook in hand, so nervous he almost fell stumbling on his own feet.
“Location: Porjea.
Population: Two hundred eighty-three people.
Incident: We have received allegations of a mass murder committed by a supposed member of the Royal Guard a week ago in a local tavern.
Casualties: Twelve men.”
The young man closed the notebook and stood, awaiting instructions, his body rigid with apprehension. “What are your orders, General?”
Ranier’s nose crinkled in disdain at both the boy’s visible unease and the sight of this depressing place.
It was beneath him to be sent to investigate murder cases, and it was beyond his comprehension why the Crown would spend the time and efforts of their highest-ranking battalion on the assassination of a bunch of nobodies.
Still, he needed to at least pretend he cared about it.
“Lead us to the crime scene, Soldier Keilan.”
The young man promptly took the lead and walked into Porjea, his general and the other five soldiers behind him.
As Ranier walked in, the village grew quieter.
He thought what scared the citizens was the gleaming silver armor that fit his muscular build perfectly and the sword hanging from his waist. Or maybe it was the ruby-colored cloak on his shoulders—a sign of his importance to the Crown.
It could be the dark brown curls that highlighted his blue eyes and the long beard that covered his jawline.
But in reality, it was his presence: the way he puffed his chest and turned his nose up, how he looked at people as if they were insects, and the fact that even his steps exuded arrogance.
Even with all of his performance, the women’s gazes were not on him; they would not dare make eye contact.
But the men… Oh, the men’s gazes clung to Ranier with every step he took, as if he were a divine creature.
Their eyes gleamed with admiration, but this facade of pride and bravery hid cowardice; their agitation stemmed from the fear that Ranier Uldor could incite in people.
And of all the things he loved about his job, seeing people diminish themselves in his presence was his favorite.
Being powerful in a place where free will was a luxury gave this man too many privileges to count.
Even though his purpose in this mission was to investigate an assassination, he knew that if he were to kill someone himself, no one would dare question it; that was how much power Ranier had in his hands.
He threw his half-used cigar on the ground and stepped on it before bursting through the door of the tavern, causing most of the customers to leave in terror.
He smiled, pleased.
The general stood before the counter, resting his palms on the stained wooden surface.
A woman stood on the other side. Shivering, she asked, “May I help you, gentlemen?”
“Do you work here, miss?” he demanded in a deep, commanding tone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps you could help me.” He sized her up. The woman was so malnourished that she could weigh the same as a ten-year-old in the capital. The fact that she continued to stare down, deflecting his gaze, annoyed him; it was like talking to a wall.
“You may look at me, I have no intention of purchasing a lady as…” He glanced at her dirty, smelly clothes, her short, sickly body. His upper lip raised in a sneer as he failed to hide his look of disgust. “…lovely as you.”
She shivered a little deeper, as if her body was incapable of looking a man in the eyes.
“What do you know about the murder of twelve men in your establishment about a week ago?”
“It is not my establishment, sir. It is my husband’s, but he passed. Sadly.”
Ranier grabbed the woman by her elbow. “Were you here when it happened?”
She nodded, swallowing. The grip of his fingers on her arm immediately left bruises behind.
“Then your word will do.”
The woman spoke in an almost whisper at first. “A gentleman came to the tavern looking to buy refreshments with two ladies.” She shook her head.
“You could say they were not from this part of the country because of their clothes. A woman should never show too much skin in Porjea. It attracts too many eyes.”
Ranier listened to the server without interference.
“Anyway, everything was under control until one of the ladies looked into the eyes of Sir Terrence. That was a huge mistake. She was such a beautiful woman, he would not let the chance of purchasing her go!” The server clicked her tongue.
“Sir Terrence made an offer to the man accompanying them, but he declined it. Suddenly, several other customers joined to bid on the ladies’ virtues. Soon, it became complete chaos.” She glanced up, replaying the scene in her head when a subtle smile appeared.
“I thought the man was going to be killed and the women enslaved, but to everyone’s surprise, he single-handedly defeated all of them within minutes.”
Her smile grew wider; the memory was still so fresh in her mind. A complete stranger had freed twelve women from their abusive husbands—herself included—as he slaughtered the men that day. It was a blessing. “I had never seen anything like that.”
“Did you hear their names, or could you perhaps tell me what they looked like?”
“They did not say their names, no. But one of the women did have the most beautiful red hair and a scar crossing the left side of her face, covering a blind eye with an eyepatch.”
Ranier looked to his right to make sure Keilan was taking notes, then back to the woman across the bar. “I’ve heard allegations that this man was a Royal Guard. Can you confirm it?”
“I cannot be sure. He was not wearing armor as you gentlemen do. But they did arrive in the village in a carriage with the Crown’s insignia carved into it, carrying large barrels.”
Royal Guards didn’t usually wear armor; that was a luxury reserved only for Ranier’s division. The suspect did have access to one of the carriages designated for transporting shipments, though. What would he be transporting this far west of Heldraine?
Ranier tapped his finger on the wood, pensive.
His eyes lit up in realization. The general stepped away from the counter for a while to avoid the server from hearing his conversation with his assistant.
“Who was assigned to transport the shipment from Bryniard this month?” he asked the soldier.
The boy frantically flipped the pages of his notebook, looking for the information. “None of us this time, sir.”
“None of us?” Ranier frowned.
“I mean, no one from the Iron Claw division, sir.”
Ranier’s eyes widened, his voice growing deeper as he spoke. “You are saying the shipment was not carried by an Iron Claw this month?”
Iron Claw was the name given to the highest-ranking division of the Royal Guard.
Although the members of the Iron Claws were exceptional warriors, their main attribute was their dubious characters.
Under the command of Ranier, the Iron Claw was unique in the Kingdom of Heldraine for being the only division aware of the truth: that Bryniard was inhabited by people rather than monsters.
For the rest of Heldraine, the Iron Claws were merely a prestige group of soldiers devoted to the most sensitive and urgent matters of the realm, when, in fact, their duty was to protect the rest of the kingdom from the secrets lying in Bryniard at all costs.
It was the Iron Claws that Alissa had seen standing on the exterior of the walls as she departed.
It was they who killed her father mercilessly.
Ranier’s division was the only one responsible for handling all Bryniard-related matters.
This time, however, the task fell into Eldric’s hands, a decision that would prove to be a mistake, and whose consequences they had yet to fully grasp.
“Yes, sir. It was a Royal Guard. His name is…” Keilan narrowed his eyes and drew the paper closer to read the information more clearly.
“Eldric Van Myr. Apparently, he was the only one in a nearby area with a horse in condition to pick up the shipment. Unfortunately, a virus killed several of our stallions.” Keilan spoke with no sense of awareness, driving the general mad in return.
“Why did this decision not go through me?” he growled in wrath.
Keilan stuttered, “I-It was Major Conan, sir. He specifically instructed us not to bother you with such irrelevant matters.”
Ranier grabbed the man’s neck in his hand, lifting him from the ground as his body weighed the same as a sheet of paper, and squeezed it.
The soldier’s feet dangled, and his legs thrashed as air was prevented from getting into his lungs.
When agonizing sounds came out of his throat and his eyes turned red, the general finally released Keilan, fortunately in time for the boy to catch his breath and live another day.
“Everything has to go through me, boy.”
“Of course, sir. That won’t happen again!” Keilan’s voice was still harsh as he recovered from the strangling.
General Uldor’s anger was almost uncontrollable. How could everyone be so incompetent?
Unable to control himself, Rainier yelled, “Fetch me the artist of our squad, have him speak with everyone who has seen the suspect and his friends, and have him draw me a portrait of their faces. You have ten hours to get this done.”
Keilan bowed. “Of course, sir.” The boy walked away, heading to the door. By the threshold, he looked back at his general. “What then, sir?”
“Prepare our men for traveling. We’re making a stop in Bryniard.”
It seemed the matters awaiting in Porjea were not beneath him after all.