The Black Sentry

by Bernhardt, William

  Daman sat on the stoop for a long while and thought as long and as hard as he had ever done before. He knew he was at a critical turning point. The decisions he made today would set the stage for the rest of his life—however long or short it might be.

  He was responsible for all that had happened.

  And since he was responsible, he decided at last, it was time he acted responsibly.

  He walked to the headquarters of the Black Sentry, adjacent to the Arena. He went to the back entrance and pounded on the door.

  The Sentry on duty peered out.

  “Go away!” he shouted. “You’ve already been told. You may not see your father before trial.”

  “That is not why I came.” He tried to keep his voice firm, although he was trembling inside.

  “Then what?”

  “I wish to speak to the Prosecutor.”

  “And what would you want with him? If this is some sort of game—”

  “It’s no game, sir. I have business with the Prosecutor.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Get him anyway.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, you—”

  “I have come to give the Prosecutor information. Important information.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Information about the Resistance.”

  The Sentry’s head twitched. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “I’m not lying. And if you don’t get the Prosecutor, I’ll let it be known throughout the village that you prevented important information about the Resistance from reaching the Prosecutor. I do not think he will be pleased. Do you?”

  He could see the man wanted to knock him off the step. But he couldn’t risk incurring the Prosecutor’s wrath. “One minute,” he growled.

  The man disappeared. He waited, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

  The Sentry returned with someone about Daman’s father’s age, the same man he had seen leading the assault on his home only hours before. His name was Arlen Crusher. He was the senior officer and Captain of the Guard, which entitled him to serve as Prosecutor. He was a tall man with black hair and small, dark eyes. He wore a solemn expression at all times—never the least hint of a smile.

  His voice was slow and heavy. “I am told you have something you wish to tell me.”

  “You have taken my father on charges of harboring the Rebel.”

  “This is so.”

  “The Black Sentry has acted in error. My father committed no crime.”

  “You are a loyal son and you speak out of a well-placed affection. Unfortunately—”

  “No, sir,” he said emphatically. “I do not speak out of affection. I speak out of fact. I know my father did not commit this crime.”

  The Proseutor’s left eyebrow arched. “And how do you know this?”

  He drew in his breath. “Because I committed this crime. I was the one who hid the Rebel in our cellar. My father knew nothing about it. I’m the guilty one.”

  14

  Daman held his breath until the Prosecutor spoke. “Do you know what you say, boy?”

  “I do,” he replied, maintaining a calm exterior that bore no resemblance to the turmoil he felt within.

  “And you say it, nonetheless.”

  “Because it’s the truth. I can prove it. I can provide details. Things no one else could know. Certainly not my father.”

  Crusher wasted no more time. He called for two more Sentry and had Daman escorted to a cell. He warned them to say nothing of what they had heard until they received further instruction.

  The two Sentry, both men older than him but whom he’d known most of his life, hauled him to a cell in the Keep. Neither spoke a word.

  He spent the night in a dark iron-barred room with no light except the scant moonlight that shone through a high barred window. There was a bare cot but no other furniture or comfort of any kind. He was not allowed to see anyone. All he could do was curl up on the cot and try to sleep.

  When at last he did drift off, his dreams were haunted.

  *****

  Morning came abruptly. Four guards marched into his cell while he still slept. They hauled him to his feet and dragged him through the door. He was given only a few moments to wash and prepare himself.

  “What’s going to happen?” he asked.

  The Sentry sneered, but none would answer.

  Eventually he was taken to a larger room he knew to be the Courtroom of the Black Sentry. He had been here with his father on a few occasions, when neighbors were tried for offenses against the Sentinel. Offenses for which they were always found guilty.

  The courtroom gallery was packed with villagers. Every seat was filled.

  Brita was there, but instead of sitting with her family, she sat beside Xander. What possible reason could Xander have for being here? After the incident with Lieutenant Coffin, he should be as far from the Prosecutor as possible. He wouldn’t have been admitted to the courtroom unless a request was made by someone outside the slave class.

  And why would Brita sit with him?

  His father sat at the front, his face dark and bruised. Daman’s mother sat behind him. They were surrounded by Black Sentry.

  One person who was notably not present was the Old Man. Why would they not force him to attend a prosecution that was all about him?

  The guards pushed his father into a chair on a raised platform, then stood behind him.

  Prosecutor Crusher entered, the usual solemn expression on his face, frocked in his most formal ceremonial robe. He was followed by Benjamin Coffin and the village Magistrate. These three would decide his fate.

  He spotted another person passing through the doorway. He eyes widened.

  The Acolyte said not a word, but found a place in the center of the courtroom. He stood there silently, watching.

  “The trial shall begin,” Crusher pronounced. The crowd quieted. “The charge is that Daman Adkins, a boy of this village, has purposefully and intentionally conspired to commit treason with enemies of the Sentinel and furthermore has committed heresy against the Sentinel. This court shall consider the evidence and render judgment accordingly.”

  He was relieved to hear that his father was not listed as one of the accused.

  Prosecutor Crusher stepped down from the raised platform and stood before him. According to the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel, he would be permitted no counsel, he would be forced to testify, and he would not be permitted to call witnesses on his own behalf. He could only defend himself to the extent he was able while answering the questions put to him.

  The first witness called was a Lieutenant Howe in the Black Sentry platoon attached to another village called Sandego, far from Merrindale. His outfit had chased the Rebel for three days. According to Howe, the Rebel and several of his associates were involved in the theft of an important treasure. The associates were captured. Only the Rebel escaped.

  No explanation or description of the device stolen was given—for good reason, he suspected. They did not want people to know anything about it. He could only conclude that the device stolen was the red-tinted key the Old Man had shown them in the cellar. He wondered how such a tiny object could cause so much concern.

  Lieutenant Howe explained that, once they chased the Rebel to the outskirts of Merrindale, he was joined by a new companion.

  “Did you see this other person?” Crusher asked.

  “Not clearly. But it was someone young. A boy.”

  He felt the eyes in the courtroom turning toward him, scrutinizing him.

  “Could you describe the boy you saw? His height. His size.”

  “He had brown hair, cut just above his shoulders. Medium height. Slim but sturdy build.”

  “An exact description of the boy who now stands on trial, isn’t it?”

  He wanted to protest. That vague description could have described any number of boys in the village. But he was not allowed to speak, and none were permitted to speak for him.

  “Yes,” Lieutenant Ho
we answered. “He fits the description perfectly.”

  The Prosecutor smiled. “You may step down.”

  The next witness was Mykah. As he walked to the front of the courtroom, their eyes briefly met. He felt ashamed. Mykah undoubtedly knew his friend had lied to him, had prevented him from finding the Old Man in the cellar.

  Mykah explained that he’d been sent out with all the other available Sentry to scour the village for the Rebel. They’d searched houses, alleys, and stores when Mykah remembered that the Adkins home had a storage cellar behind it.

  “What happened when you brought your platoon to the cellar?”

  “After announcing myself, I led the group down the steps. We found Daman Adkins and...a young girl.”

  “Who was this girl?”

  “I do not know. I never saw her face.”

  Now Mykah was the one lying–to protect Brita.

  “What were they doing?”

  “They...” Mykah craned his neck awkwardly. “They appeared to be kissing.”

  Crusher waited for the stir in the courtroom to pass. “You thought they were engaged in an unauthorized display of affection?”

  “I did, yes. And Daman told me he had not seen the Rebel.”

  “And because Daman Adkins was your friend, you left without searching the cellar.”

  “That’s true, sir. I did.”

  Crusher folded his arms across his chest. “You realize now that Daman Adkins lied to you, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You realize that your friend—and probably this girl as well—were part of the Resistance, and that they intentionally misled you to prevent you from discovering the enemy of the Sentinel.”

  “I do.”

  “You allowed the Old Man to escape—however briefly—because you had feelings of friendship. But you must now see that ideas like friendship are of no value to the Black Sentry. That you must do the will of the Sentinel without regard for such trivialities. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mykah said firmly. “I do now.”

  Crusher nodded curtly. “You may step down.”

  He could not look at Mykah as he left the courtroom. He knew Mykah felt betrayed. He had endangered Mykah’s career almost before it had begun. Even more than before, Daman felt that a stone wall fell between them, one never likely to be breached.

  Crusher called another member of the Sentry. He was tall and athletic, but with a frightening countenance. His name was James Kent. He was the man who led the platoon that burst into their home and found the Old Man.

  “What did you do when you spotted the Rebel?” the Prosecutor asked.

  “At first we surrounded the house.”

  “And then?”

  “The rear door was blocked, so we all came around to the front and eventually forced our way inside.”

  “Did you find the Rebel?”

  “Apparently, he escaped through the rear while we struggled to enter the front.”

  “Why did you not pursue him?”

  “We tried. But as we passed through the room, someone held us back, bombarding us with anything at hand.”

  “And who was this attacker?”

  Kent pointed toward Daman’s father. “The baker. Martin Adkins.”

  “Was he protecting the Old Man?”

  “I thought so at first. But the Old Man had already departed. Mister Adkins later explained he did not know the Rebel hid in his home. I believe it was the boy who admitted the Rebel without his parents’ knowledge or consent. I believe Mister Adkins panicked when he saw the Sentry burst through his door. He thought the Sentry had come for him.”

  “Regrettable,” Crusher pronounced. “But understandable.”

  He felt a wave of relief flood through him. As long as they believed that–his father should be safe.

  “Were you able to subdue Mister Adkins?”

  “Of course. And a few moments later we captured the Old Man as well.”

  “You may step down. And now,” the Prosecutor said, “there remains to be called but a single witness.”

  The prosecutor turned suddenly and glared down at him. “And that witness, young Master Adkins, is you.”

  15

  Daman steeled himself as he sat in the witness chair. He knew the questioning would be relentless. He had to remain strong.

  “We have many questions for you,” Crusher said. “You will tell us everything.”

  He looked away from the crowd, trying to block those penetrating eyes out of his mind.

  “I have already told you everything, sir,” he replied.

  “You will address me as Prosecutor, boy.”

  There was a slight stirring. “Actually,” the Acolyte said, in a tranquil, serene voice, “I believe I should act as Prosecutor from this point forward.”

  Crusher was obviously surprised. “You?”

  The Acolyte spread wide his hands. “Of course. It is my right, as senior representative of the Sentinel. If you have an objection—”

  “No, no,” Crusher said hastily. “Of course not.” As surprised as he might be, he knew better than to challenge the Acolyte’s authority. “Do you wish me to continue the interrogation?”

  “Of course,” the Acolyte said generously. “Please do. Although I may interrupt from time to time.”

  Crusher bowed his head obediently, then returned his attention to his witness. “You will tell us everything you know about the Rebel you sheltered in your cellar.”

  He had already decided that, so far as was possible without endangering others, he would tell the truth. This seemed the best plan, because he worried that if he were caught up in a web of falsehoods, they might disbelieve him and once again accuse his father. Therefore, he gave them a reasonably truthful account of meeting the Old Man and running from the Black Sentry. He omitted the encounter with the Creeper and everything he had learned about the hideous beasts, instead suggesting that they’d had the good fortune not to encounter any.

  “You must live a charmed life,” Crusher said. “In the generations since the protective fences were erected, few have ever ventured into the Creepers’ forest and lived to tell of it.”

  “I’ve always been lucky,” he said, and left it at that. But he noticed that the Acolyte peered at him most intently.

  “Why did you help this Rebel when he appeared unexpectedly?” Crusher asked.

  “I don’t know. There was little time to think.”

  “Do you harbor enmity toward the Sentinel?”

  “Then or now?”

  The gallery stirred.

  “Then.”

  “I was not aware of any enmity. I simply saw a man being hunted like an animal and tried to help him.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I have seen my father hurt and humiliated by the Sentinel and his minions even though he is guilty of no crime. I can no longer in good conscience say that the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel are infallible because I have seen that they are not.”

  A stunned silence fell over the courtroom. Words such as his had never been heard in this village, certainly not in any public proceeding. Several of the men in the gallery shouted for an immediate Ritual of Execution.

  But he noted that some of the others sat quietly, as if perhaps his words had affected them in quite a different way.

  He glanced at his parents. His mother pressed one hand against her forehead. He supposed she was horrified by his words, and frightened by what she knew would be the inevitable result. His father’s expression was also grave, but he did not perceive any hint of shame. Perhaps he imagined it, but for a moment he thought perhaps his father even felt some pride that he had the courage to speak the truth.

  “Tell us what happened next,” Crusher prodded.

  He told them about returning to the village after night fell, eluding the Sentry, and making his way to the cellar. Of course, he omitted any mention of Brita.

  “You knew that the man you harbored was the Rebel the Acolyte had warned abo
ut, did you not?”

  “I didn’t know it,” he answered truthfully.

  “You suspected it was so.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nonetheless, you gave him aid and succor.”

  “I gave him a place to sleep and food to eat.”

  “And you made no report to the officials.”

  “Why would I? I’d never seen him do anything wrong. He committed no crime against me.”

  Crusher whipped back his hand and slapped him across the face. The blow stung. He felt water surging to his eyes. “Don’t play games with me, boy. You saw him being chased by the Black Sentry. You knew he was wanted.”

  He made no reply. Crusher’s words spoke for themselves.

  “The Sentry reported seeing a young girl in your cellar that night who helped you dissuade the Sentry from searching. Is that true?”

  “It is.”

  “And who was this girl?”

  He hesitated.

  “Was it a girl from the village?”

  “No,” he answered. “Another stranger.”

  “A member of this Resistance?”

  “Yes.” Why not let them believe the Resistance was endless and everywhere?

  “Are there more of these Rebels?”

  “More than you know,” he answered quietly. “More than you can imagine.”

  There was an audible rumble from the gallery.

  “Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Resistance?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “Then answer this,” said the Acolyte, raising his voice, “if you had the chance to join this Resistance, would you?”

  He thought a long time before answering. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you tell your parents what you’d done?”

  “Never,” he said firmly. He had to make them believe it. “I told them nothing. Because I knew that if I did, they would not approve, and they would make an immediate report to the Black Sentry, as required by the Laws and Ways.”

  “And yet, you gave the Old Man food—”

  “I stole it. My parents did not know. They have always respected the Sentinel’s Laws.”

  “Let me ask you another question. Do you feel any shame for having betrayed the Sentinel? Do you feel any remorse?”