“Cas…castration?!” Barakus stammered, blinking in disbelief. “You can’t do this; she’s just a half-elf! I’d be doing her a favor by putting a baby in her belly!”
The herald looked over his shoulder quickly, and the Jarl gestured with his fingers for him to continue. Turning back to face the prisoner, the herald narrowed his eyes. “The Hold’s lenience in this matter is exhausted, prisoner; do you mean to challenge the Jarl’s authority in this matter?”
Barakus’ fists clenched before himself, and Randall felt his heartbeat quicken as he knew that very soon this would no longer resemble any court he had witnessed.
“I do challenge it!” the prisoner shouted. “You’re savages—lawless, dirt-worshipping savages and I refuse to submit to your would-be king’s primitive ‘justice’!”
The herald stepped aside emphatically, and the Jarl stood from his throne. His steps were even and measured as he made his way down the steps before his massive, wooden chair, and when he stood before Barakus the disparity in their physiques was so absurd that Randall actually winced. There was nothing fair about a confrontation between men of such obviously mismatched physical ability—the Jarl was probably at least twice the weight of the smaller man, and it seemed that every ounce of the larger man’s physique was muscle.
“You are dissatisfied with my judgment,” Jarl Balgruf said in his deep, rumbling voice, and Randall felt every hair on the back of his neck stand in unison. He held the prisoner’s gaze for a few seconds before the smaller man visibly wilted and looked to the ground. “Very well; the Hold respects each life equally, and you shall be given the chance to earn your freedom.” The Jarl turned to the young woman, Yunia. “I will stand for you in this matter, if you have no other to do so, daughter of Greystone.”
Yunia took a step toward the Jarl and thrust her chin out before curtseying respectfully. “I am truly honored, my Jarl. But my cousin, Torgar, would stand for me.” She gestured to the man who had been cracking his knuckles, and Randall watched as the man strode toward the Jarl.
Standing before the leader of Greystone, Torgar bowed deeply before straightening and saying in a loud, carrying voice, “Allow me to be the instrument of your justice, my Jarl; I yearn to serve the Hold.”
The Jarl towered over the smaller, stocky man and considered him before nodding curtly. “Very well,” he said as he reached beneath his multitude of furs. He produced a pair of simple, but clearly deadly, obsidian daggers with leather-wrapped handles. The massive man handed one hilt-first to Torgar, and then quickly—and without warning—slipped the other between Barakus’ wrists and cut the binding cord with a quick, upward flick of the razor-sharp tip.
“The rules are simple,” the Jarl rumbled as he offered the prisoner the obsidian dagger, which he hesitantly accepted, “the first man to submit verbally, or be incapacitated to the loss of bodily control, has lost. Should the accuser’s proxy lose, the crime is erased from the annals of the Hold’s justice and the prisoner will be granted a formal apology from the Hold; should the prisoner lose, he shall submit to the Hold’s justice. Any wounds sustained prior to submission will be considered part of that justice; do you understand?” he asked Torgar officiously.
The young woman’s cousin nodded as a smirk spread across his face. Jarl Balgruf turned to Barakus and repeated, “Do you understand?”
The short, pudgy man snorted derisively. “I understand alright,” he growled, “I understand that you’re all savages! All this is over what, a half-elf!?” He shook his head in open bewilderment. “They’re not even people!”
The Jarl looked down at the man like he was an uninteresting insect before turning his back on him and looking up at the Federation Ambassador, who looked just as calm and collected as he had been at the outset. “Does the Federation object to Greystone executing its sovereign rights to administer justice in this affair?”
The Ambassador bowed slightly at the waist. “The Federation respects the rights of Greystone’s native people to carry out her customs, however archaic. We sincerely hope that our patience with such troublesome practices will further progress toward Greystone’s recognition of inalienable, human, rights which the Federation’s founding charter holds to be self-evident.” He placed just the slightest emphasis on the word ‘human,’ causing the Jarl’s jaw to clench tightly and Randall heard a nearly imperceptible gasp from the crowd behind him. But the massive leader’s features quickly relaxed before he ascended the stairs.
When he reached the top he took his seat in the wooden throne once again. “Let the trial by combat commence,” Balgruf commanded, and a handful of guards moved forward to create an oval-shaped perimeter around the two men.
When they were positioned, Torgar stood at one end of the formation while Barakus stood at the other. The prisoner deftly spun the blade over in his hands while the other man stood motionless with his own weapon held at his side.
Barakus approached the other man slowly as he crouched down, and Randall had seen similar stances in countless knife fights which had erupted in the Last Coin—or its vicinity—over the years, and he knew that Torgar would have his work cut out for him.
“Do you want to know the real shame of it all?” the pudgy man asked with a taunting sneer.
Torgar leaned forward on the balls of his feet as he took a step circling toward the other man’s knife-hand, but made no reply.
They circled each other for a half dozen steps before the prisoner spat, “She wasn’t even that good!” He suddenly lunged toward Torgar, who only avoided being hit by the other man’s blade by a few inches as it snapped past his neck.
Torgar backpedaled quickly, but Barakus was moving forward with a series of obviously well-practiced strikes, alternating between slashing and thrusting attacks aimed both high and low. It was all Torgar could do to keep away from the whirling frenzy of the other man’s attack, and after no more than ten steps the deceptively pudgy man scored the first hit of the bout, opening a red gash on the other man’s left shoulder.
Putting meaning to the term ‘smelling blood,’ Barakus pressed the attack even more furiously as he kept his stance squared to the other man and rushed with short, powerful strides. Torgar lashed out with the occasional counterattack but came nowhere near landing a hit on the other man.
Barakus was quickly rewarded with another hit—this one a slash to Torgar’s right leg at the mid-thigh—after which he paused and shook his head in mock pity. “Maybe I’ll pay her another visit after I’ve finished gutting you,” he snarled as he kicked out with his right foot at Torgar’s left knee.
Torgar raised his leg in self-defense, which only opened his other leg to an even more brutal attack as the fat little man shifted his weight and brought his other shin into Torgar’s already-wounded thigh with punishing force.
Randall considered Torgar lucky as he staggered backward, receiving another pair of glancing strikes—one a stab to his right shoulder, and the other a shallow slash across his belly—before he finally regained his footing.
Barakus pressed forward clearly certain of his impending victory and Torgar glanced frantically at Yunia, who Randall noted was surprisingly calm about the entire affair. She gave the barest hint of a nod, and Randall’s eyes snapped back to the battle between the two stocky men just as Barakus brought his blade down toward Torgar’s exposed neck—it was a killing blow, if ever Randall had seen one.
But Torgar moved forward and in a simple, yet extremely smooth sequence slammed his own blade into Barakus’ groin with his right hand while his left blocked the other man’s attack by intercepting his forearm. Using the other man’s momentum against him, Torgar lifted with his dagger-wielding right hand and rotated his shoulders, bringing Barakus’ body briefly into the air over Torgar’s head before slamming him down onto his own head with a sickening crunch of skull on cold, hard stone.
Barakus lashed out with his fist blindly, but Torgar wasn’t finished. Using his momentum he wrenched the other man’s dagger from hi
s grip and spun, pulling his own weapon free as he did so. Both blades flashed through the air in a rapid blur of glossy, black stone before burying themselves into the left side of Barakus’ chest.
The pudgy man didn’t even manage a decent death rattle as his body twitched for a few seconds before all signs of life left it, and Torgar stood slowly from his kneeling posture beside his fallen foe’s body.
Turning to his cousin, Torgar bowed slightly before doing the same in the Jarl’s direction. Balgruf stood and nodded approvingly, declaring in his deep, rumbling voice, “The Hold’s will is done; justice has been served.”
Torgar removed the tattered remains of his shirt, and Randall saw that the man’s entire torso was literally covered in knots of criss-crossing scars—the kind sustained in knife fights precisely like the one he had just engaged in—and he couldn’t help but shake his head in awe. A brief count suggested that Torgar had fought in a hundred similar fights, and his feigned incompetence was only too obvious to Randall with the benefit of hindsight.
“Bring forth the next prisoner,” Randall heard the herald call out, and he felt his heart skip a beat since he knew he was next.
Chapter XXXIV: Friends in High Places
16-0-6-659
Moving on uncertain legs, he stepped forward determined not to show just how afraid he was. It was true that Randall had already faced death a few times in the last few months—which was more than he had ever faced in the previous years—but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“What is your name?” the herald asked, and Randall’s ears began to ring. It was a common enough response to anxiety or tension in his experience, so he unconsciously opened his jaw in an attempt to dispel the sensation.
Hesitating briefly, he wondered if he should lie. Then he remembered that the half-elven woman—and probably the Federation Ambassador as well—seemed able to verify the veracity of a person’s statements, so he straightened his back and answered, “My name is Randall.”
“Randall,” the herald repeated, pausing briefly before continuing, “from where do you hail?”
Ignoring the sudden numbness in his feet, he replied, “I was born in Three Rivers.”
He literally jumped with alarm when Dan’Moread’s voice said, I will protect you if need be. Do not be afraid.
“Thanks,” he whispered as quietly as he could manage still making the word audible.
“Excuse me?” the herald said pointedly.
“I said I was born in Three Rivers,” Randall said hastily, hoping to avoid further discourse with the sword in the immediate future.
“And when did you leave your birthplace?” the herald continued.
“Just a few months ago,” Randall replied quickly.
“So…you are a Federation Citizen?” the herald asked.
Randall took a deep breath, and was about to reply in the affirmative before realizing something: he had never actually taken any oath of fealty or Citizenship. In fact, it was completely illegal for a half-elf to gain Citizenship as far as he could tell.
“No, I’m not,” he replied defiantly.
“But you say you were born in Three Rivers, and that you only left a few months ago,” the herald said with a confused look on his face before his expression changed to one of understanding. “I do apologize, Citizen Ambassador,” he said with a half-hearted bow to the Federation representative, “I forgot that not all nations afford equal rights to their inhabitants.”
There was a snicker of approval from the crowd assembled behind him, but Randall had to work hard to keep his eyebrows from furrowing in confusion.
“Think nothing of it,” the Ambassador replied smoothly with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I would not expect our complex code of laws to be easily decipherable without years of dedicated study. The acquisition of such knowledge requires a proper library—like the one we only recently built here in Greystone, as a gesture of goodwill toward her people. It is our sincere hope to dispel such ignorance—” he paused and held a finger to his lips, “I mean to say, such misunderstandings among all the people of our world.”
The herald tilted his head slightly as there was a deathly silence from the crowd behind Randall. “In any case,” he said easily as he turned to face Randall once again, “if you are not a Federation Citizen, then of what nationality do you belong?”
Randall hadn’t quite expected that particular question, and after a moment’s hesitation he heard the sword’s voice in his mind. We can still fight our way out of this, Randall, it said, but its voice still sounded too weak for Randall’s liking.
“No,” he hissed under his breath, desperate to keep the sword from doing something it couldn’t undo.
“No?” the herald repeated quizzically.
“No…nationality,” Randall said quickly as his mouth worked quicker than his brain. “When the Federation conquered Three Rivers they killed the Kheifs and razed their palace to the ground. I suppose I was born a citizen of whatever nation they belonged to…” he said, having never actually thought about the matter before.
“I see,” the herald said, placing a finger to his lips as if in thought, but Randall could clearly see that this entire affair was nothing but theater. The only question he cared to answer was: how should he act in order to get through unscathed? “So you mean to say that you fled Three Rivers?”
“Yes,” Randall replied unthinkingly, “I fled.”
“To escape from what?” the herald pressed.
“To escape from…” Randall trailed off, realizing he had come dangerously close to admitting that he had killed the soldiers during his last night in the city. “To escape from the persecution which pervades Federation society—specifically that suffered by half-elves!”
The herald turned pointedly to the red-haired woman beside the Jarl’s throne, who nodded a scant amount more emphatically than she had previously. He then turned to the Federation Ambassador, who nodded curtly but his eyes burned like nothing Randall had seen from the man to that point.
“Half-elves, you say?” the herald repeated. “The term itself is considered slanderous in these lands. Did you know that?”
Randall felt himself blush as he remembered being told as much by Yaerilys. “Yes, I have been told that,” he admitted sheepishly.
“May we please advance the proceedings to the matter at hand?” the Federation Ambassador urged in his silky smooth voice.
“Of course,” the herald said graciously, “my apologies, Citizen Ambassador.” He turned to Randall and gestured to the back of the crowd, “Do you recognize that horse?”
Randall turned and saw Storm Chaser, unsaddled, being handled by a pair of Greystone soldiers. He nodded, “That’s my horse, Storm Chaser.”
“And how did you come by such a fine animal?” the herald asked evenly.
“It was a gift,” Randall replied as he turned to face the herald, “from a man named Drannis.”
“Drannis, you say?” the herald repeated, giving the half-elven woman and the Ambassador short looks. “Did he mention how he came to possess the steed?”
Randall’s mind raced as he tried to remember the name of the General who Drannis said had gifted Storm Chaser to him. Then it hit him. “Birchaud!” he exclaimed. “He said the horse was a gift from General Birchaud and that even though he was long in the tooth for being a proper charger, he couldn’t stand to put him to the plow.”
“General Birchaud?” the herald repeated, and Randall found himself actually annoyed at the man’s tendency to do so. “Are you certain?”
Randall nodded confidently. “I am.”
The herald turned to the Jarl pointedly, who stood and made his way to the top of the landing. “General Birchaud,” Balgruf growled, emphasizing the man’s rank, “was a traitor and a thief. He betrayed House Greystone by raising an army beneath a banner which he had no right to hoist and marching against Greystone’s neighbors. Thousands died beneath his army’s boots…the mere mention of his name
within our walls is treason.”
Randall felt his throat tighten. He had apparently just stepped in it, as the saying went, and was completely confounded as to how he might extricate himself.
“All of this is truly fascinating,” the Federation Ambassador said with a note of annoyance in his voice, “but I am afraid the greater point is being missed.”
The Jarl whirled on the Ambassador with a fiery look in his eyes, but for his part the Federation representative met the hulking man’s gaze lazily. “Perhaps the Federation considers treason to be an inconsequential matter,” Balgruf growled, “but in Greystone we take such matters seriously.”
“Which would be an interesting—even moving—point,” the Ambassador admitted as he took a few steps forward, “were this man a citizen of Greystone. We have already established that he is not, is that not correct?” he said with a pointed look at the red-haired half-elf, who still stood motionless beside the throne.
When the woman made no motion to indicate she had even heard the Ambassador’s request, he continued, “In fact, the greater point is one regarding the possession of contraband which is clearly outlined in the Federation’s Accords of Peace.” He pointed to Dan’Moread’s hilt emphatically, “This man is carrying an unlicensed, enchanted weapon, and his continued permission to do so clearly contravenes the Federation’s treaty with the city-state of Greystone.” He turned to the herald with an expectant look on his face, “Does it not?”
The herald hesitated as he looked to the Jarl, who silently ground his teeth at the Ambassador’s presumption. After a few moments of silence, the Jarl nodded to his herald, who cleared his throat and replied, “Indeed, the Peace Accords are quite clear on this matter.”
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to recite the operative passage?” the Ambassador pressed icily. “Assuming you have read it of course?”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 36
