by Plague Jack
“They’ll kill you,” said Pierah calmly. “After they torture you for information first. I think you have a good chance of winning, though,” said the sorceress. She clapped her hands together and called down a lightning bolt from the sky. It wriggled in her hands, white-blue, before hardening into a solid white staff of white wood. The witch smashed her staff’s end into the dirt, causing the left sea goat statue to groan and turn upwards, spewing sand and parting the fog as it rose. A spiral staircase wrapped around its base and plunged downward into a black hole.
As the witch led the reluctant party onward, Evrill waited behind to address the Bedmaker, who still sat lazily at the edge of the fountain. “Will you be joining us?” she asked the gilnoid.
“No,” he wheezed. “My sleepers need me. And there will be more beds to make soon.”
Chapter 6
This morning started like any other. I made my rounds through the hospital and checked on the test subjects. 3, 9, and 17 died while I slept. 20, 16, 1, and 10 were breathing but just barely, as the plague began to take them. I could have wept, Clark, and I would have, had it not been for subject 5. When his bandages came off, the dog rot sores around his lips had faded, his skin had lost its yellow sheen, and his eyes were bright and alert. I think I may have found a cure…
—Letter from Veronica Evrill to Clark Pendragon, 1310.
The hounds came after Clark and Gabriel’s horses with hungry hope in their eyes. “Here you go, you mangy mutts.” Gabriel laughed as he tossed them the skinned remains of a hare he had shot through the eye. The dogs tore it apart hungrily and swiftly.
“You should be careful,” a young Pendragon warned Gabriel. “I hear dogs can carry plague.”
“Everything carries plague,” Gabriel responded as they rode through the Whitewood. The massive white tree trunks were as thick around as a castle tower and four times as high. Their branches and purple leaves partially obscured the sun, but its rays still managed to penetrate to the forest below. “Rats carry plague, dwarfs carry plague, cats carry plague—even you probably carry plague.”
“You laugh because things are quiet here in the east,” Pendragon said, stroking his freshly grown brown beard. “But I have two brothers at home in Voskeer covered in sores.”
Gabriel stopped smiling and held up his hands apologetically. “Shit, Clark. Sorry. I for—”
“It’s fine,” said Pendragon. “Don’t worry about it. The Evrills came to visit Voskeer half a year ago. Their oldest, Veronica, has a theory that the plague is spread through fleas and ticks instead of the animals themselves.”
“Fleas and ticks?” repeated Gabriel, skeptical. “I guess anything is possible.”
“We got a fresh haul today,” said Pendragon, changing the topic and slapping the rump of the dead boar slung over the back of his horse. “Your father should be proud of us.”
“That old man? He hates everything I do. I’m a prince, and yet he sends me out hunting as if there isn’t enough food at the Yellow Keep. He’s a duke, dammit—it’s not like he’s starving. Did you see the look he gave me when I questioned him? It was like ice. I don’t think he respects me.”
“He respects you,” said Pendragon, trying to hold back his exasperation. “That’s just his way, is all. He’s impatient, and the Vaetorians have been breathing down his neck. You’d be a little testy, too, if you were him.”
The Whitewoods thinned and ended as the path opened up to the Bay of Thorns. The sun burned brightly over the Yellow Keep, which stood proudly on an island in the middle of the bay. A low wall surrounded the keep and the accompanying city. The Yellow Keep’s yellow stone was overgrown with thorned rose vines that bloomed into bright red flowers. Tall, toothed towers overlooked the bay, and a small port held just a few small ships.
“The Vaetorians are here,” said Gabriel when he saw the massive black-sailed dreadnoughts circling his home keep. Sorcerers stood on the ship’s deck, their bodies glowing red through their robes. “Why? What business do they have?”
“Stay here,” said Pendragon, pulling Gabriel back by the shoulder. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Stay here? Hell, no!” said Gabriel. The red light from the Vaetorian sorcerers began to glow brighter as the ships circled. “My family needs me.” There was a thunderous cracking as the towers of the Yellow Keep were crushed as if gripped by an invisible hand. They smashed buildings as they fell, and the screams of peasants broke the serene afternoon. Dust filled the sky as the Keep began to fall, brick by brick.
“Let me go!” screamed Gabriel, shouting and struggling against Pendragon.
“They’ll kill you,” said Pendragon. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I have to,” said Gabriel, punching Pendragon in the nose. A dribble of blood ran down Pendragon’s face.
He returned the punch and knocked Gabriel unconscious with one blow. Pendragon caught his friend as he fell and gently cradled his head as he laid him against a tree. “You’ll thank me for this later,” said Pendragon. “It might take you years, but you’ll thank me.”
There was another sickening rumble as the earth beneath the Yellow Keep split and the remaining walls came crumbling down. Roaring saltwater filled the gap made by the quaking earth. The surrounding city collapsed as the dirt beneath it slid into the bay. The whole island expanded from within, like an inflating bubble, before crashing back down into the Bay of Thorns. The few ships stationed at the docks tried to sail for shore, but they were quickly sunk by the dreadnought’s ballistas. Water boiled as the screams went silent and the ruins of Prince Gabriel’s home were forever lost to the sea.
This savage act perpetrated by the Vaetorians would inspire Gabriel Roselock to become King Gabriel Roselock. Pendragon missed the simpler times, when he knew who was enemy and who was friend.
The stairway leading to the underside of Capricorn was a nautilus shell of spiraled passages and tunnels. It was a tight fit for the horse and the moa, who neighed and squawked uncomfortably. Pierah led the way, and the torches lit when they sensed her presence. “You can’t tell me you had no idea this would happen,” Pendragon growled as his metal boots clanged on the wet stone.
“Well…” said Pierah, not bothering to turn around. “I had hoped it wouldn’t.”
Shrike spoke up from behind Pendragon. “I sometimes hope hunks of gold will fall from the sky and land at my feet. Hasn’t happened yet.”
The witch looked back at Shrike and Pendragon, both of whom glared back. “The trial was my idea,” she said. “Our leader was going to let you live, but once the rest of the Huntsmen heard you were coming, they demanded your death. It took a lot of convincing to get them to agree to a trial. So in a roundabout way, I kept my word.”
You did… thought Pendragon. But that still might not be enough. “I’m not afraid of death,” he said. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to die.
“They won’t kill you,” said Pierah. “At least, I doubt it. I think threatening your death was a bit of a knee jerk, honestly. You’ve brought them Shrike, the Bottler, and everyone’s favorite duchess. Killing you wouldn’t help their cause.”
“What if I threatened to unleash a monster in their midst?” said Calcifer. “Would that let us skip the trial?”
Pierah laughed. “A word of advice, Bottler—don’t go making threats. Salus doesn’t take kindly to them.”
Salus… The head Huntsman’s name is Salus.
“Do you recognize the name?” Evrill asked Shrike.
“Well…” the dwarf pondered. “There was a sorcerer named Salus who helped sink the Yellow Keep. He was a Vaetorian human, reported dead during the Rose Rebellion.” There was a pause. “Probably not the same guy. Whoever Salus is, I’ve never heard him.”
If the head of the Jester House Courier Company hasn’t heard of you, you probably don’t exist, thought Pendragon. “What can you tell us about Salus?” he asked Pierah.
“I don’t know much more than you, to be honest. When I met
him I was working as a thief out of Sinstolke.”
“Cambrian gives you his gift, and you waste it stealing gold?” said Calcifer, annoyed. “It’s good to know you set your sights high.”
Pierah’s eyes narrowed till it seemed she could barely see from behind her eyelashes. “I was no petty thief, you twat. I’ve stolen for and from half the kings in Archipelago and made more gold from it than you will ever see in your lifetime.”
Calcifer’s struck a nerve, and the witch takes pride in her work. Interesting, thought Pendragon.
Pierah pointed to the sword at Calcifer’s waist. “That’s Kusangi. I stole it for you.”
“No,” said Calcifer. “This sword was a gift from my father.”
“And who stole it for him?”
Calcifer laughed. “So you stole from Hatori Sun. I’m impressed, but your gifts are still squandered.”
“Hardly. Everyone wants something, and most people are willing to part with a few bags of gold for their heart’s desire. I’ve amassed quite a fortune in my short life, and nearly all of it has been spent funding the Wild Hunt.”
“Then you must believe in this man, Salus?” asked Evrill, peering from behind her half-moon glasses.
Pierah sighed. “I believe in the Wild Hunt.”
Whoever built the Hall of the Gods had been long forgotten by time. The ancient temple had been discovered by the elves, who had then built the Marble Trident above its ruin. Many thought it had been their intention to hide the ancient altar, while others assumed the location had merely proved convenient. During the siege of Capricorn, King Harendiir had saved his troops by gathering them in the gods’ hall. Protected within, King Harendiir had made sure that no soldiers’ lives were lost on the frivolous task of defending civilians.
The hall was named for the statues that lined the walls. There was one for each god, carved in such detail that they felt alive, faceless except for their eyes, which were dark pools of shadow. Cambrian, the Life-Bringer, stood shelled and tentacled opposite Volcanoth, the Metal-Maker, whose iron rings circled sculpted flame. Then came Prezmordia, the Patient, who wore hundreds of eyes on each of his six wings. Scassix the Cold Blooded’s oval eyes peered down from a cobra’s hood, its many clawed and vicious hands outstretched as if to tear at an invisible enemy. Seven hoofed legs carried Mamillian the Free, who gazed majestically down the hall. Ceno, the Builder, bowed its head, mantis limbs held tight to its exoskeleton. Seeing the gods brought to life with such vibrancy reminded Pendragon of his visit to the Tarnished Palace, a memory that seemed so very distant.
The Hall of the Gods was as massive as anything the dwarfs had built. The roof of the chamber extended so high it became lost in darkness. Half the Marble Trident could fit in here, thought Pendragon as he looked down the grand staircase that led to the hall’s floor. The roaring mob had been pushed to either side of the massive hall, leaving a middle lane cleared for their passage.
“I’ll try to keep them back,” said Pierah, running in front of them and shouting over the crowd. “But this could get ugly.” A pair of towering gilnoid guards in full plate armor greeted her, their cloaks dyed a deep forest green. “Keep the mob off him,” Pierah commanded, jamming a thumb in Pendragon’s direction. There were other guards lining the sides of the aisle, all of them struggling to keep the angry horde in check.
I expected a hundred men at most, thought Pendragon as a potato tossed by a faeling ricocheted off his helmet. There must be five hundred people here. Salus has the makings of an army. A scraggly dwarf rushed forward, knife in hand, only to be caught and beaten by a pair of elf guards. Calcifer, Shrike, and Evrill were all but forgotten in the madness. All eyes on me, thought Pendragon as an elf woman clad in silk and pearls spat a glob of green goo before him.
The podium at the end of the aisle was a dark stone thing, high and tall. Behind it was a statue that dwarfed the other gods, a dark, twisted monstrosity of exposed brains, teeth, and guts. Nemesis, the Forgotten… thought Pendragon. Legends told of a seventh god who had ruled the others before Archipelago was shattered. Unlike with the six, there were no sorcerers spreading Nemesis's word. The only evidence of Nemesis’s existence lay in the occasional relic that washed ashore or was found buried deep beneath Amernia’s soil.
Judges in every land in Archipelago behaved as if their judgment was divine, and in Amernia they were no different. As if to cement this, tradition stated that judges were to wear a mask resembling their patron god.
“Enough, all of you!” shouted the judge from behind a false Cambrian face of wood. “You are acting like a bunch of savages!” The judge’s voice boomed as he slammed a gauntleted hand onto the podium. “Enough!” he shouted again as the crowd settled into an uneasy quiet.
A chair was set in front of the judge’s podium for all to see. Before it was a long table with five chairs. “Sit,” commanded the judge. “All of you.”
They obliged, and Pendragon was surprised to find Pierah sitting with them. Shrike nudged him. “Say hello to your old friend,” said the dwarf, pointing to the dark mass hanging from the top of the podium.
Oil-lit flames rolled across the severed head, black with tar and preservative. Fire reflected off a slender crown of horses. “Hello again, Phineas,” Pendragon muttered. “You’ve aged well.”
“Sir Clark Pendragon.” The judge began stroking the facial horns of his mask. “Former Duke of Voskeer, albeit briefly. You retired from being a duke after the Rose Rebellion and gave your city to the Roselock family after the Vaetorians sunk their home. Over the years you served the Roselocks loyally. Perhaps…” He paused. “…too loyally. You are here on trial for war crimes committed on behalf of the Blood Queen. How do you plead?”
“I plead—” Pendragon started before being cut off.
“Remove your helmet,” said the judge. “A man is on trial here, not a dragon.”
Pendragon started to undo the clasps that bound his helmet to his breastplate when Shrike spoke up. “He pleads innocent,” said the dwarf.
The judge leaned over the side of the podium. “Who are you to speak for him?”
Shrike stood atop his chair. “Harper O’Connor, former Amernian special forces, head of the Jester House Courier Company,” said Shrike proudly. “Also known as Shrike.” At this a murmur of excitement went up through the crowd, and Evrill and Calcifer exchanged glances. “Let me do the talking,” Shrike whispered to Pendragon. “Speak when, and only when, I prompt you.”
A soft laugh curled from behind the judge’s mask. “Pierah, is this true?”
The witch stood up. “It is,” she said, meeting the judge’s eyes, her bronze skin spread tight over a clenched jaw. “I’ve also brought Duchess Veronica Evrill and Calcifer. He might be known to most of you”—she turned to face the crowd—“as the Bottler.”
The murmur of the crowd turned to applause. “Silence!” the judge bellowed. “Welcome, both of you,” he said, suddenly gracious. “The pair of you have friends here.”
“Thank you, your honor,” said Evrill, bowing her head.
“Shrike,” said the judge, turning his attention to the dwarf. “You, Mr. O’Connor, show either great bravery or great foolishness by coming here.”
“I know,” said Shrike, taking off his leather coat and putting it on the back of his chair. “Put me on trial later please. I don't plan on leaving anytime soon.”
“I may very well,” said the judge. “Let us begin. Mordigan, take a seat if you would.” There was a shuffling as an armored gilnoid emerged from the crowd and made his way to the front. It was a minor miracle that the chair didn’t break beneath his weight. Mordigan lifted his visor to reveal a noseless face, making him hideous even by gilnoid standards. “You were at the Fells, weren’t you, Mordigan?” began the judge.
The Fells had been a gilnoid encampment in the Whitewood forest, built in the roots of the grand trees. The Fells had been largely ignored by the Queen, until Darius began using them as a recruiting ground. Gilnoids bred
slowly, like most large mammals, but in battle they were as strong as three men and twice as vicious. Pendragon and Stolk had sent men to impose order in the Fells during the Green War. The mission was a failure.
“Please give your account of the Battle of the Fells,” said the judge. “For the courtroom.”
“Well,” said Mordigan. “We was just going about our day, right? Just minding our own businesses when a bunch o’ guys in red and a bunch o’ guys in purple showed up. And they started dragging our men and women out their houses with ropes. We tried to fight back, but they had crossbows, and they started putting us down like dogs. Pretty boy with an axe took my nose clean off, he did,” said Mordigan, rubbing the hole that once held his nose.
“What happened at the Fells was not my fault,” shouted Pendragon. “I wasn’t even there!” A stomp on his boot from Shrike reminded him to be silent.
“I think you was,” said Mordigan. “Yes, I ’member you now. You had that helmet on and everything,” said Mordigan, pointing at the helmet lying hollow on the table.
“Mister Mordigan,” interrupted Shrike, “if I may intervene?”
“You can.”
“You claim that you witnessed Pendragon at the Fells, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Well, at the time of the battle, Sir Pendragon here was preparing to march on Capricorn. Although he did send men to the Fells, he did not personally command them.”
“Oh, well…” said Mordigan, awkwardly. “I guess I might be wrong a bit. But he still let his men raid the town.”
“The Fells weren’t quite the innocent forest utopia you described, were they?” The gilnoid’s eyes shifted back and forth nervously. “Have you heard of the Jester House Courier Company?”
“Yes,” said Mordigan. “They bring me my mail.”
“Yes, they do, Mordigan!” said Shrike with a mocking enthusiasm. “But before they deliver it, they read it! And you are none the wiser.”
“They do?” said Mordigan clutching his hands to his head in shock.
