by Oisin McGann
‘What’s he in for?’ he asked, ignoring Groach and directing the question at the guards.
‘Attacking a member of the Noranian Armed Forces,’ Grulk answered.
‘What? This thing attacked a soldier? Did he have a weapon?’
‘A teapot.’
The creature let rip an hysterical laugh. Groach could not help but give a little smile.
‘A teapot?’ the stunted figure roared. ‘And I suppose he mercilessly struck the trooper down with a buttered scone while the noble warrior lay mortally wounded on the ground! Lying in a pool of their own tea! Ha ha ha!’
‘This is not a joke, Gaoler,’ Grulk snarled.
‘And why did he commit this most terrible of crimes?’
‘You’re trying my patience, Gaoler …’ Grulk could see the other two guards grinning and it was getting her temper up.
‘… No, wait. Don’t tell me. He was defending his secret stash of cucumber sandwiches! Ha ha ha ha! Got to watch out for those cucumber-sandwich smugglers, they’re a desperate lot … fanatics you might say … ha ha ha … lethal with a teapot … and you should see the damage they can do with an apple crumble … ha ha ha …’
His laughing stopped abruptly when Grulk, who stood head and shoulders above him, slammed him against the wall hard enough to dent the grey plaster.
‘Lock him up!’ she bellowed. ‘And not another word out of you or I’ll feed you your innards!’
Suppressing a scared giggle, the gaoler took a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall and gestured to them to follow.
‘Give him your worst cell,’ Grulk urged as she shoved Groach ahead of her.
They followed the gaoler, Grulk glaring at the small man as they walked down between the rows of cells. The stunted man’s keys jingled as he walked.
They walked past a number of heavy, iron-banded wooden doors. The gaoler stopped at one and inserted a large key into its lock. It opened with a creak.
‘This is our worst,’ he sighed. ‘The walls are damp, the bench has woodworm and the grate in the ceiling is beneath the outhouse.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Grulk. ‘We’ll take it.’
Left-Speartrooper Grulk was bunking in the soldiers’ quarters in the barracks. As the other men and women drank cheap mead and played knucklebones, she lay in her bunk and fumed, tormented by the memory of Shessil Groach’s attack. She also thought about how the gaoler had laughed at her, and how the others had joined in. She knew that there would be a trial tomorrow of the little man and his woman friend, and that the story would come out at the trial. And she knew that she would be made a laughing stock.
The story must not be told. Her fellow soldiers already knew, but they had seen the attack and had witnessed how she had been dishonoured. They understood. But the trial would be public. Everyone in the town would know afterwards. And they would laugh at her behind her back. She couldn’t have that. Life for a woman in the Noranian Armed Forces was gruelling enough, without little snots coming along and attacking you with teapots. So, the trial must not take place. Groach would have to have an accident in his cell. And the girl too; she must not be tried either. But Groach first. Left-Speartrooper Grulk climbed out of her bunk and put on her boots.
The cell smelt. Shessil Groach crouched up on the bench with his knees supporting his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs. There was a draught from the tiny grate in the ceiling over one wall that brought relief from the musky stink, but chilled his tired flesh. His face was still puffy from the soldier’s blow, and his nose was itchy and very sore, which meant that scratching just hurt it more. He had a headache right behind his forehead, and was thoroughly miserable. He knew he would not sleep. Eventually, he remembered the tonic Hilspeth had given him; she had said it would ease pain.
Taking the blue glass vial from his pocket, he held it up in the dim light from the corridor. He could not remember how much she had told him to take, but he was in quite a lot of pain. He drew out the cork and, holding his head back, let six or seven drops fall onto his tongue. Moments later, the world went bright orange and turned inside out. He collapsed off the bench onto the damp floor.
When his vision cleared, he was gazing along the floor at the bottom of the door to his cell. Something in Groach’s head dragged a memory from a dark corner of his skull. Two drops under his tongue, three times a day. No more. It was true that he did not feel any pain in his head any more. He could not feel his head at all – nor any other part of his body for that matter. He was completely unable to move. He became worried that he would wet himself if he stayed here too long. But there was nothing he could do, so he continued to watch the bottom of the door. When the door opened with a sound one would expect it to make if it were being dragged through syrup, he was grateful for the change in scenery. A pair of feet stepped into view, and the world swung around him until his face ended up pressed against somebody’s back. He was unable to see who was carrying him, but he knew the sweaty, smoky body odour. It was Left-Speartrooper Grulk, and she was alone. Fear flooded the numbness of his body as he realised she was taking him up out of the gaol.
She was talking to him in a hoarse whisper, but it might as well have been a pig snorting at him for all the sense he could make of it. They were carrying on up the steps, beyond the courtyard, up further. They must be ascending one of the towers. He tried counting the steps, but the jolting of her body as she climbed was making him feel disorientated and sick. He felt like he was going to throw up.
They came out into fresh air, and his head started to clear a little. She dropped him to the floorboards like a sack, and he knew that as soon as he could feel his ribs, they would start to hurt. Deep down in his belly, a knot was forming. It was only a small cramp, but it promised big things. At the top of the tower an oil lamp burned in one corner, hanging from a nail in a roof-post. The triangular battlements were sharply defined in the orange lamplight against the navy blue of the night sky. The space beyond seemed like an abyss.
‘… Can you hear me, you little weed?’ He could just hear Grulk’s voice saying, ‘This is it. This is your end, little man. You have escaped the cells and made your way up here, where you will try to get away by climbing down from this tower. You will, of course, die in the attempt. It’s not such a long fall to the bottom, but you will be leading with your head. No one will suspect, and no one will ask questions. You are a nobody, and not a soul will care when you are gone.’
Groach thought the idea of his trying to climb down from the tower to escape an absurd idea, but she obviously knew what she was talking about. He was a bit hurt by the bit about him being a ‘nobody’, but she had a point. After all, who would care when he was gone? Mostly though, he was concerned about the growing cramp in his stomach. Grulk did a quick circuit of the top of the tower to check that no one was watching, then bent down to pick up Groach.
The bellyache signalled a gradual return of feeling to his body and limbs, and as he was hoisted aloft, the full realisation of what she was doing dawned on him. He struggled weakly, but he was no match for her. Instead, the thrashing made his stomach convulse, and he threw up. Grulk gagged in disgust, letting go of him with one hand to cover her face. His weight crumpled onto her shoulder and knocked her sideways. As she tried to wipe the mess from her armour, she dropped him, slipped on a patch of vomit, and fell against the battlements. Her armour-encased torso rolled between two of the teeth, stranding her there, kicking and twisting like a tortoise turned on its back. Groach choked and coughed for breath, on his knees at the base of the battlements. Trying to give room to his lungs, he shifted his weight onto his feet and stood up. His shoulder caught one of Grulk’s kicking feet, and she pitched backwards over the wall, disappearing into the empty space with a desperate scream. A thump followed some moments later.
Gasping in shock at what he had done, Groach staggered to the edge of the wall and gaped down at the body below. She was dead. There was no doubt about that. He threw up again, and when he was finis
hed, he slumped down with his back to the mottled plaster. People were starting to come out of their houses around the square; lamps were being lit. In a daze, Groach stumbled down the six flights of stairs and out into the compound. People were milling around him, but in the commotion, nobody noticed the small man in the dirty clothes who walked out the now-open gate, and into the crowd. With everyone else trying to get a look at the dead soldier, Groach passed unhindered across the square towards the only familiar place in town. The guards, drawn away to help deal with the crowds, did not notice him slip past in the shadows and into the huge house from which he had originally escaped – the building that housed the Harvest Tide Project.
Hilspeth was woken from a fitful sleep by a shouting match between the female occupant of the next cell and the stout woman who yelled from down the hallway, where she sat at her desk. The prisoner bellowing from the adjacent cell had been arrested the night before for being drunk and disorderly, and was demanding to be released on the grounds that she was now sober. It was the law, and she knew her rights, she shrieked. Over and over again. The guard replied, in an equally vocal manner, that the woman would not be released until she shut up. This match of wills went on for some time. It ended with the female guard walking past Hilspeth’s cell, in the process of rolling up her sleeves, and then opening the door to the next room. There followed a loud smack and a brief silence. Hilspeth guessed that the guard was in a hurry to get the prisoner released. Sure enough, the guard then walked past the other way, leading a woman who was holding a hand to her left cheek.
The episode served to take Hilspeth’s mind off her plight. They had told her that she was to face trial today, first thing in the morning. It was still a gloomy grey outside, but there could not be much time left. From inside her jacket, she pulled out a packet of powder and unfolded it. It was Ground Clublick Root, for Strength and Forbearance in Adversity. She sprinkled some on the inside of her left wrist and rubbed it against her right. Then she folded the packet carefully and placed it back in one of the dozens of small pockets she had in her waistcoat. The vapours soothed her and helped her focus her mind.
Down the corridor came the tramp of big feet carrying heavy bodies. Two soldiers stopped outside her cell door, and, peering through the barred window, waved at her to stand up. The door was unlocked by the guard, who then retreated to her desk. Hilspeth was taken out of the women’s gaol block, upstairs and out across the courtyard. The barracks was even more forbidding in the bleak yellow dawn and Hilspeth shivered. But this was not the time to be intimidated. She squared her shoulders, and in order to take the initiative, strode faster than the two soldiers who marched either side, an effort that resulted in the three competing in a less-than-dignified run past the guardhouse to the courtroom.
Watching out the window of his chambers, Judge Rile Pliskett observed the three figures trotting past, and finished buttoning his wide cuffs. Pulling on his thick fur robe, he laid his weighty gold chains of office over his chest, and donned the expressionless white wooden mask that covered his face from his hairline to his top lip. This, according to tradition, was the face of justice, unemotional and just and fair. Judge Rile Pliskett took tradition very seriously.
Hilspeth was seated on a bench in a rectangular pit that put the floor at her shoulder level. Steps led out of one end, and a low railing ran around the top of the pit. The position meant that the accused, that was to say, Hilspeth, could be looked down upon by everyone else in the large room. The rest of the room was filled with rows of benches, with a raised platform where the judge would sit with the Town Accuser standing in front of him. The Accuser passed up papers to the judge’s assistant, who gave them a cursory glance and agreed to point out the important bits to the judge. The Accuser was notorious for producing huge amounts of paperwork, and the judge had eventually given up trying to read it, much to the Accuser’s annoyance.
The courtroom was nearly empty. The regular crowd, who regarded the court as one of the best sources of entertainment in town, was not up and about yet, and no one was very interested in Hilspeth’s case. She waited for Panch to appear, or Shessil, or whatever his real name was, but there was no sign of him. She began to feel very lonely. She had no friends here; no one knew her and no one would take her side. There were more soldiers here than anyone else, some from the convoy that had brought her here, and some from the barracks. The two groups kept apart from each other, and eyed one another in suspicious rivalry. The barracks soldiers were standing watch over her; the others were witnesses against her. The chief witness, Left-Speartrooper Grulk, had not appeared either. That worried Hilspeth. She hoped Panch was all right. Her concern for him outweighed her fears for herself, and she had to snap back to the courtroom as the judge was announced. Judge Rile Pliskett entered, his fur robe following for some distance after him. He sat up behind the podium and gathered his furs around him. Perched above the gold and fur, the white mask swivelled and gazed down, short-sighted eyes squinting out through the dark holes to study Hilspeth.
Hilspeth readied herself for the fight of her life. The Accuser stood and read the charges:
‘Let it be known to the court, that this woman, a Miss Hilspeth Naratemus, is charged with wilfully obstructing a soldier in the execution of her duties, and participation in the assault on said soldier during said obstruction …’
‘I object!’ yelled Hilspeth.
‘Young lady,’ said the judge peering down at her. ‘You cannot object to the charges. The whole point of the trial is that you are accused of these things and you argue against them. You may object to the Accuser’s method of accusing you if you wish. But you have to let the man begin.’
Hilspeth bit her lip. She had never taken part in a trial before and did not know the rules. She could hold her own in any argument and had started quite a few in her time, but they had not been hampered by rules. This was going to be tough.
‘I will produce evidence, as listed and described in the papers provided for your Judgeship …’ The Accuser indicated the pile on the podium. ‘… that the accused and her co-defendant, whom we will be trying in his absence, as he is not here, did on the day concerned commit the aforementioned act.’
Hilspeth noticed the man had a way of speaking that bored and annoyed her at the same time and wondered if this was one of the things she could object to. Probably not, she decided. It did make what he was saying difficult to follow, though, and as he continued, it took all her effort to keep her attention from wandering off.
‘… whereupon, the aforementioned soldier, whom we shall henceforth refer to as the third party, did in the course of this event, suffer a blow to the head with a porcelain vessel, specifically …’ The Accuser checked his notes. ‘… a teapot. Subsequently …’
‘Did you say a teapot?’ the judge asked.
‘I did, your Judgeship.’
The judge lifted his mask slightly to see the paper where he made a note of the information.
‘I see. Continue.’
‘Subsequently, the third party did turn and defend herself …’
‘I’m sorry. You’ve lost me. Who is the third party?’
‘The soldier who was attacked, your Judgeship.’
‘Ah yes, of course. Continue.’
‘The third party did turn and defend herself in a manner in keeping with her training as a member of the Noranian Armed Forces.’ The Accuser straightened and lifted his chin.
‘I call the first witness for the accusation. Right-Speartrooper Flivel.’
The soldier, a wiry individual with a jutting jaw, wide, round eyes and bad skin, stepped up to the stand. The judge’s mask pivoted to take in the new participant. The judge’s assistant stepped up.
‘What is your name?’
‘Right-Speartrooper Boxxus Flivel.’
‘Do you promise not to lie, to tell the story, the whole story, and nothing but the story, on pain of death by hanging?’
‘Aye.’
‘Good. You are no
w under oath.’ The assistant sat back down in his chair.
‘Right-Speartrooper Flivel,’ the Accuser began. ‘Did you, on the day before yesterday, witness the assault on Left-Speartrooper Grulk by the aforementioned parties?’
The trooper, still trying to digest the question, stared back at the Accuser, who carefully nodded once.
‘Aye,’ replied Flivel, relieved.
‘Tell us what you saw, Right-Speartrooper.’
‘Aye, well. We was on a manhunt …’
‘“We were on a manhunt”, Right-Speartrooper,’ Pliskett corrected as he made another note. The soldiers from the barracks sniggered.
‘Aye, sir, we wa … were on a manhunt, see, and while we was …’
‘Were …’
‘… While we were searching this village, see, this cart came up the road. Full of bottles and jars it was, see,’ Flivel narrated. ‘And it sort of made this jinglin’ sound, so we all turned to look at it, see …’
‘Right-Speartrooper,’ Judge Pliskett interrupted. ‘Let us assume that I see now, and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future, negating any need for you to keep checking.’
‘Sorry, your Judgeship?’
‘Stop saying “see” all the time, Right-Speartrooper.’ The mask’s eyeholes held him in their gaze.
‘Aye, sir. Anyway, we was …’
‘Were …’
‘…Were watchin’ this cart, and we were thinkin’ how there wasn’t no instructions for no carts …’
