by Sam Ferguson
Morgan nodded. Everything he said made sense. She could give up her desire to lead the interrogation if it might buy her some good will with Orin to let him win this argument. “I hear you,” she said. “I’ll be happy to accompany you and assist in whatever way you deem appropriate. When do we go?”
“Right now,” Orin said, pushing back from his desk and standing up, his old knees popping and cracking. “I hope you are ready for some fun. I still remember the first time I watched a questioning session.” Orin clapped his hands together and shook his head. “Master Brigston was a marvelous inquisitor, always had the suspects sweating long before he ever stepped into the room with them. You develop a keen sense of smell in this business, Morgan. When you walk into the room, take a moment to sniff the fear.” He held up a finger to get her absolute attention. “A man who is nervous could just be uncomfortable, but the smell of fear means he is hiding something. Soon enough you will know what I mean.”
Morgan almost thought to remind him again that she had done this a few times before, but she decided against it. It certainly wasn’t the first time she had seen Orin in action, and yet she could barely contain herself as she followed him through the halls and down into the holding cells beneath the main levels of the Inquisitor’s Hall. When they arrived, Orin motioned for Morgan to open the wooden door to the interrogation chamber herself.
“Better to have a pretty face followed by the dreaded inquisitor, than to have you come in after me and give the young man any sort of relief,” he said.
Morgan smiled and did as she was told. She pushed in and found a tall, well-built man sitting in a wooden chair with his feet shackled to the floor and his arms restrained by manacles that were in turn chained to the shackles below. He looked at her and Morgan realized that Orin had been correct. The man’s dark eyes seemed to soften and a hint of a smile appeared to tug at the left corner of his mouth.
“You’re younger than I thought you would be,” the man said.
“Thank you,” Orin thundered as he walked in past Morgan, nearly shoving her out of the way as he walked into the room.
The prisoner’s half-grin disappeared altogether and his eyes went wide.
For a moment, Morgan could have sworn that she did smell fear.
“I don’t know anything,” the prisoner said.
“That’s probably true,” Orin replied. “Anyone dumb enough to smuggle weapons across the border likely doesn’t know anything at all.”
The prisoner glanced to Morgan, as if looking for help. Morgan turned around to close the door to the room, effectively hiding the grin on her face. She had heard rumors that Orin loved to insult detainees, but it wasn’t the words he used, it was his tone of voice. He was so matter-of-fact about it that it was almost as if he wasn’t intending to insult the man at all. He was simply agreeing, turning the prisoner’s words against him in a subtle, yet unmistakable way that gave him immediate control over the room.
“Don’t worry, though,” Orin continued. “I’m smarter enough for the both of us. I’ll get to the bottom of things quickly and then we’ll get you on your way.”
“You mean three of us…” the prisoner said softly.
Morgan turned around just in time to see Orin glance up to her. “No,” he replied as he looked back to the prisoner. “I meant the two of us,” he said, indicating himself and Morgan. “You don’t really factor into the equation.”
The man’s shock wore off, replaced by a set jaw and glaring eyes. “You think you’re clever? Well I fought in the Murkle Quags! It takes more than being clever to live through the things I did.”
Orin laughed. “The fact that you were dumb enough to volunteer to be a Ghost of the Quags only serves to support my assertion that you don’t have the intelligence of a common house cat.”
“Let me out of these chains and I will be happy to give you a lesson or two you won’t forget,” the prisoner said.
“Ah yes, you’re a tough soldier, I almost forgot.” Orin smiled and folded his arms. “So will you teach me how to run away, like you did in the battle of Del’s Fjord thirteen years ago?”
The prisoner’s angry pride melted away as the color drained from his face and his jaw fell open. “I—I—I dunno what you’re—”
“Save it,” Orin said calmly. “I know all about it. You were wounded, your official papers claimed you lost your little toe on your left foot, is that correct?”
“An arrow from a troll—” the prisoner began to explain but Orin cut him off.
“No it didn’t,” Orin said. “It was your own arrow.”
The prisoner closed his mouth and knit his brow. “No, it was a troll, I swear.”
“Were you wearing your boots?” Orin asked.
“What kind of question is that?” the prisoner asked.
“A simple one. Were there boots on your feet?”
The prisoner glanced to Morgan and then shifted in his seat before looking back to Orin. “Of course. We were on a rescue mission. Del’s Fjord was a small village south of the wall. Our orders were to evacuate it because the monsoons were spreading northward.”
“So you are saying you most certainly had your boots on, correct?” Orin pressed.
“Of course! I can’t run into a planned mission without my boots.”
“No,” Orin said with a shake of his head. “You see, I have your old boot.”
“What?”
Orin smiled. “Funny thing about your boots: they had metal plates over the top. Surely the armor would have prevented an arrow from piercing through and taking your toe.”
The prisoner bristled. “They must have had a strong bow—”
“This is where you stop arguing,” Orin said. “The thing is, your boot is still intact. You do remember I just told you that I have your old boots. You and I both know the armor plating is in perfect condition. The truth is, you didn’t get wounded in an ambush. When the ambush started, you ran for the trees. You left the others to die. Knowing that Captain Ziegler would find you, you had to come up with a plan so he wouldn’t execute you as a deserter, so there in the jungle you thought about it.” Orin leaned down to the prisoner’s face and sneered at him. “You had heard of jungle rot, and you knew that other soldiers had lost toes and parts of their feet to the disease. So, either because you thought it would give you jungle rot, or because you figured a toe was a smaller price to pay than death, you removed your left boot and shot your own foot.”
“No…I…”
Orin backed away and shook his head. “There is no hole in your boot,” Orin said again. “If you had been shot then there would be a hole in the armor and the boot itself, but there isn’t.”
“But I told Captain Ziegler I lost the boot in a fight,” the prisoner said.
Orin snickered. “But you just told me that you definitely had your boots on.”
“You don’t have my boot, you can’t have it.”
“Why?” Orin asked. “Because you buried it?” He turned and winked to Morgan. “You see this young woman? She was at Del’s Fjord too. She also ran to the trees when the fighting started. She saw everything you did.”
Morgan stiffened. She hadn’t expected to be used as a prop in Orin’s performance. Still, trusting her mentor she kept a straight face.
“She pulled your boot from its hiding spot, and she brought it to me.” Orin leaned in and put his hands on the prisoner’s shoulders. “Now, you already deserted this young woman once, leaving your comrades during a battle meant to save her village. Are you really going to sit there and deny her justice after all this time?”
The prisoner looked to Miranda as tears formed in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to do it. You don’t understand…”
“Don’t I?” Orin said as he pulled back. He reached to his left arm and slid the sleeve back, revealing a tattoo of a long sword stuck in a troll’s skull. “I served my time in the Quags long before I became an inquisitor, and it is cowards like you that don’t understand. Yo
u abandoned them! You left them! You took the easy way out so you could live comfortably, serving along the wall instead of in the thick of battle.”
The prisoner looked down to the ground.
Orin reached down, gripping the prisoner under the chin, and yanked the man’s head up. “Now, you listen to me, you wretched hunk of troll scat. You are going to tell me everything. I want to know every single detail Captain Ziegler told you, and I want the names of anyone else he was working with, and what they were doing. Tell me now, or I will hang you for desertion.”
“Where do you want me to start?” the prisoner asked.
“After you left the army, when was the next time Ziegler contacted you?”
The man shifted in his seat and shook his head.
“Ziegler is already dead,” Orin said. “You can’t protect him any longer, but you can help yourself. When was it?”
“A few years ago,” the prisoner said.
“What did he want?”
“He needed help with some charters to travel north into Tanglewood Forest. I told him I couldn’t help with that myself, but I knew someone who could.”
Orin nodded. “Be precise. Tell me exactly when he approached you, and leave nothing out. I want the whole story from that moment until the day you were thrown into your cell in this building.”
*****
Jonathan followed Jason out of the shop after helping his brother close up for the rest of the day.
“I have to run home and prepare some things,” Jason said. “But we shouldn’t put this off for long. I’ll bring a pair of horses to the farm, promise me you’ll be ready to go as soon as I arrive.”
Jonathan could see the fear in his brother’s eyes. “I don’t see why you’re worried,” he said. “If it is Ziegler, then this will be easy to straighten out.”
Jason shook his head. “You don’t understand. Ingbrethsen has been known to strip veterans of their pensions, their awards and titles, and that’s to say nothing of the soldiers he has jailed or had executed for crimes.”
“Well, unless killing the troll king and winning a war is a crime, then I think we are safe,” Jonathan said with a wink. “We’ll be fine.”
“And how about our excursion into Tanglewood Forest?” Jason asked. “That wasn’t exactly a sanctioned mission.”
Jonathan paused. That much was true, and only the three of them had returned from the mission. Though it had averted a much larger disaster, all of them knew that they had been explicitly ordered to stay out of the elven lands. “But the elven council promised that—”
“Promised what?” Jason snarled. “You think they can’t change their minds? You think they were always going to keep things nice? Maybe they need leverage for trade negotiations.”
“Jason, you’re overthinking this,” Jonathan assured his older brother. “We’ll be fine. We always are.”
“We’re pregnant,” Jason put in, stopping Jonathan dead in his tracks and leaving him speechless. “We’ve only known for a couple weeks, but I am about to become a father, Jonathan. This isn’t just about you and me anymore. I have a family to protect.”
Jonathan felt a mix of emotions, but it was happiness that came out in the form of a smile and a slap on his older brother’s back. “Good for you and Annabell!” Jonathan said. “That’s wonderful.”
“Not if Orin Ingbrethsen puts me in a cell somewhere,” Jason cut in.
Jonathan shrugged. “Don’t let him bother you,” Jonathan said. “It’s just a guy with some questions. We can always drop the king’s name if we need too. He and I are friends, you know.”
“You’re right,” Jason said with a nod. Jonathan then saw Jason’s old, cock-sure smile and knew that his brother was going to be all right. “I’ll get the horses and tell Annabell where we’re headed.”
“Just tell her it’s an important reunion or something,” Jonathan suggested. “No need to get her excited about Ingbrethsen. Usually you are the calm one and she is the worrier, so if this inquisitor has you worried, I can only imagine how she’ll feel.”
Jason shook his head. “Lies and secrets are tools for war, not marriage,” he said. “We have no secrets. I’ll just tell her not to worry.”
Jonathan thought about saying something, but it was too easy, and besides, Jason was already on edge. He nodded his head and waved over his shoulder as he turned to head back out of town. He picked a few night-bell flowers along the way, admiring their deep blue petals and taking in their pleasant fragrance. He stopped along the way at a small clearing protected from encroaching trees by a waist-high iron fence. He found several grave markers inside as both his parents as well as Pa and Memaw were now buried in the family cemetery.
After standing near the gate for some time, staring at each of the tombstones, he moved inside and set a night-bell at each marker, stopping last at Memaw’s stone.
“The farm is doing well,” he said. “You’d be proud.” He glanced to Pa’s stone and smiled. “The orchard is producing well, and the bees are faring better than expected.” He took in a breath and then sighed as he looked back toward the road. “I’m going to be leaving for a few days, but the farm’s in good hands. Don’t worry, everything is fine. I’m sure it’s just a formality of some kind.” Jonathan’s smile faltered and he shook his head. “Jason is a bit worried. He thinks it might have something to do with the elves up north, but I’ll watch after him. I always do. I’ll talk with you again soon.” Jonathan turned and left the cemetery, careful to close the latch on the gate, and then continued toward his home.
After gathering the hired hands and delegating authority out, he packed enough clothes and food for the road, as well as his official uniform for his meeting with Orin Ingbrethsen. As he was folding his tunic, he stopped and thought better of it.
“If Orin Ingbrethsen is summoning a soldier, then a soldier he shall get,” Jonathan said. He removed his civilian clothes and donned his officer’s uniform. The white tunic bore the symbol of a rearing dragon, as did the thick leather pauldrons on his shoulders. His black trousers tucked into his boots, which were shined and polished nearly well enough to show Jonathan his own reflection. He moved the other items he had already packed and put them into official saddlebags replete with the same symbol emblazoned into the leather with gold inlay.
Griff pushed through the front door and hopped up onto Jason’s bed, crossing his front legs and swishing his thick tail back and forth.
“Did you leave the sheep alone today?” Jonathan asked. Griff tilted his massive head to the side as if pretending not to know what Jonathan meant, but the young man knew that the reptile understood precisely. The cavedog never actually attacked the sheep, but he had an insatiable urge to stalk them, and one of these days some poor sheep was going to die of a heart attack. “How about a trip?” Jonathan asked. “You up for going into Lehemat?”
Griff puffed out the sack of skin under his lower jaw and then let out a soft growl.
Jonathan smiled. “If I have to go, then you have to go. We’ll see what Master Ingbrethsen makes of that!”
The young man had no idea what Orin’s intentions were, but Jonathan was the hero of the Quags, and he was not about to be intimidated by some nobleman behind a desk. “If Tanglewood Forest really is the issue at hand, then you are coming with me and I will be more than happy to tell Orin Ingbrethsen exactly what had been at stake.” Jonathan turned to Griff and wagged a finger. “And if the old man doesn’t like what I have to say…” Jonathan told Griff. “Well, then I will have a few choice words for him, and you can bite him on his rear and take a pound of flesh off of him.”
Griff’s tail went up and the lizard jerked his head toward the door.
Someone was coming.
Jonathan grabbed the bags and made his way toward the open door just as Jason was coming up onto the porch.
“Jonathan, are you ready to go?” Jason pushed the door open and appeared more than a little relieved to see Jonathan fully prepared.
&
nbsp; “How did it go with Annabell?” Jonathan asked.
“I left a note,” Jason said.
“Coward,” Jonathan poked.
“She was out discussing crib designs with the carpenter,” Jason explained. “I couldn’t very well tell her there.”
“Mr. Jamison makes cribs?” Jonathan asked.
“No, the new carpenter, I don’t remember his name. He just moved into town a few months ago.”
“Oh yeah, the skinny little guy with the really large wife,” Jonathan said with a nod.
“That isn’t nice,” Jason pointed out.
“Neither is leaving a note and ditching your pregnant wife,” Jonathan fired back as he secured his saddle bags to a black horse.
“Hey! I said we have no secrets, I didn’t say I tell her everything face-to-face,” Jason said.
“Speaking of that,” Jonathan said with an impish grin. “Does she know that we used to call her pig-face?”
Jason pointed a finger at Jonathan. “Don’t!”
Jonathan snickered and jumped up onto his horse. Then he let out a whistle. The sound of sharp claws scratching along the floor made the horses take a couple steps back as Griff came racing out onto the porch and leapt down to the trail.
