Robillard groaned, sighed, and threw up his hands in defeat as Deudermont, too civilized a man, gave the note to Micanty and bade him to rush it to the magistrate.
“Light the box!” Jharkheld called from the stage after the guards had brought Wulfgar around so that the barbarian could witness Morik’s horror.
Wulfgar could not distance himself from the sight of setting the rat cage on fire. The frightened creature scurried around, and then began to burrow.
The scene of such pain inflicted on a friend entered into Wulfgar’s private domain, clawed through his wall of denial, even as the rat bit through Morik’s skin. The barbarian loosed a growl so threatening, so preternaturally feral, that it turned the eyes of those near him from the spectacle of Morik’s horror. Huge muscles bunched and flexed, and Wulfgar snapped his torso out to the side, launching the man holding him there away. The barbarian lashed out with one leg, swinging the iron ball and chain so that it wrapped the legs of the other man holding him. A sharp tug sent the guard to the ground.
Wulfgar pulled and pulled as others slammed against him, as clubs battered him, as Jharkheld, angered by the distraction, yelled for Morik’s gag to be removed. Somehow, incredibly, powerful Wulfgar pulled his arms free and lurched for the rack.
Guard after guard slammed into him. He threw them aside as if they were children, but so many rushed the barbarian that he couldn’t beat a path to Morik, who was screaming in agony now.
“Get it off me!” cried Morik.
Suddenly Wulfgar was facedown. Jharkheld got close enough to snap his whip across the man’s back with a loud crack!
“Admit your guilt!” the frenzied magistrate demanded as he beat Wulfgar viciously.
Wulfgar growled and struggled. Another guard tumbled away, and another got his nose splattered all over his face by a heavy slug.
“Get it off me!” Morik cried again.
The crowd loved it. Jharkheld felt certain he’d reached a new level of showmanship.
“Stop!” came a cry from the audience that managed to penetrate the general howls and hoots. “Enough!”
The excitement died away fast as the crowd turned and recognized the speaker as Captain Deudermont of Sea Sprite. Deudermont looked haggard and leaned heavily on a cane.
Magistrate Jharkheld’s trepidation only heightened as Waillan Micanty pushed past the guards to climb onto the stage. He rushed to Jharkheld’s side and presented him with Deudermont’s note.
The magistrate pulled it open and read it. Surprised, stunned even, he grew angrier by the word. Jharkheld looked up at Deudermont, causally motioned for one of the guards to gag the screaming Morik again, and for the others to pull the battered Wulfgar up to his feet.
Unconcerned for himself and with no comprehension of what was happening beyond the torture of Morik, Wulfgar bolted from their grasp. He staggered and tripped over the swinging balls and chains but managed to dive close enough to reach out and slap the burning box and rat from Morik’s belly.
He was beaten again and hauled before Jharkheld.
“It will only get worse for Morik now,” the sadistic magistrate promised quietly, and he turned to Deudermont, a look of outrage clear on his face. “Captain Deudermont!” he called. “As the victim and a recognized nobleman, you have the authority to pen such a note, but are you sure? At this late hour?”
Deudermont came forward, ignoring the grumbles and protests, even threats, and stood tall in the midst of the bloodthirsty crowd. “The evidence against Creeps Sharky and the tattooed pirate was solid,” he explained, “but plausible, too, is Morik’s tale of being set up with Wulfgar to take the blame, while the other two took only the reward.”
“But,” Jharkheld argued, pointing his finger into the air, “plausible, too, is the tale that Creeps Sharky told, one of conspiracy that makes them all guilty.”
The crowd, confused but suspecting that their fun might soon be at an end, seemed to like Magistrate Jharkheld’s explanation better.
“And plausible, too, is the tale of Josi Puddles, one that further implicates both Morik the Rogue and Wulfgar,” Jharkheld went on. “Might I remind you, Captain, that the barbarian hasn’t even denied the claims of Creeps Sharky!”
Deudermont looked then to Wulfgar, who continued his infuriating, expressionless stance.
“Captain Deudermont, do you declare the innocence of this man?” Jharkheld asked, pointing to Wulfgar and speaking slowly and loudly enough for all to hear.
“That is not within my rights,” Deudermont replied over the shouts of protest from the bloodthirsty peasants. “I cannot determine guilt or innocence but can only offer that which you have before you.”
Magistrate Jharkheld stared at the hastily penned note again, then held it up for the crowd to see. “A letter of pardon for Wulfgar,” he explained.
The crowd hushed as one for just an instant, then began jostling and shouting curses. Both Deudermont and Jharkheld feared that a riot would ensue.
“This is folly,” Jharkheld snarled.
“I am a visitor in excellent standing, by your own words, Magistrate Jharkheld,” Deudermont replied calmly. “By that standing I ask the city to pardon Wulfgar, and by that standing I expect you to honor that request or face the questioning of your superiors.”
There it was, stated flatly, plainly, and without any wriggle room at all. Jharkheld was bound, Deudermont and the magistrate knew, for the captain was, indeed, well within his rights to offer such a pardon. Such letters were not uncommon, usually given at great expense to the family of the pardoned man, but never before in such a dramatic fashion as this. Not at the Prisoner’s Carnival, at the very moment of Jharkheld’s greatest show!
“Death to Wulfgar!” someone in the crowd yelled, and others joined in, while Jharkheld and Deudermont looked to Wulfgar in that critical time.
Their expressions meant nothing to the man, who still thought that death would be a relief, perhaps the greatest escape possible from his haunting memories. When Wulfgar looked to Morik, the man stretched near to breaking, his stomach all bloody and the guards bringing forth another rat, he realized it wasn’t an option, not if the rogue’s loyalty to him meant anything at all.
“I had nothing to do with the attack,” Wulfgar flatly declared. “Believe me if you will, kill me if you don’t. It matters not to me.”
“There you have it, Magistrate Jharkheld,” Deudermont said. “Release him, if you please. Honor my pardon as a visitor in excellent standing to Luskan.”
Jharkheld held Deudermont’s stare for a long time. The old man was obviously disapproving, but he nodded to the guards, and Wulfgar was immediately released from their grasp. Tentatively, and only after further prompting from Jharkheld, one of the men brought a key down to Wulfgar’s ankles, releasing the ball and chain shackles.
“Get him out of here,” an angry Jharkheld instructed, but the big man resisted the guards’ attempts to pull him from the stage.
“Morik is innocent,” Wulfgar declared.
“What?” Jharkheld exclaimed. “Drag him away!”
Wulfgar, stronger than the guards could ever imagine, held his ground. “I proclaim the innocence of Morik the Rogue!” he cried. “He did nothing, and if you continue here, you do so only for your own evil pleasures and not in the name of justice!”
“How much you two sound alike,” an obviously disgusted Robillard whispered to Deudermont, coming up behind the captain.
“Magistrate Jharkheld!” the captain called above the cries of the crowd.
Jharkheld eyed him directly, knowing what was to come. The captain merely nodded. Scowling, the magistrate snapped up his parchments, waved angrily to his guards, and stormed off the stage. The frenzied crowd started pressing forward, but the city guard held them back.
Smiling widely, sticking his tongue out at those peasants who tried to spit at him, Morik was half dragged, half carried from the stage behind Wulfgar.
Morik spent most of the walk through the magis
trate offices talking soothingly to Wulfgar. The rogue could tell from the big man’s expression that Wulfgar was locked into those awful memories again. Morik feared that he would tear down the walls and kill half the magistrate’s assistants. The rogue’s stomach was still bloody, and his arms and legs ached more profoundly than anything he had ever felt. He had no desire to go back to Prisoner’s Carnival.
Morik thought they would be brought before Jharkheld. That prospect, given Wulfgar’s volatile mood, scared him more than a little. To his relief, the escorting guards avoided Jharkheld’s office and turned into a small, nondescript room. A nervous little man sat behind a tremendous desk littered with mounds of papers.
One of the guards presented Deudermont’s note to the man. He took a quick look at it and snorted, for he had already heard of the disappointing show at Prisoner’s Carnival. The little man quickly scribbled his initials across the note, confirming that it had been reviewed and accepted.
“You are not innocent,” he said, handing the note to Wulfgar, “and thus are not declared innocent.”
“We were told that we would be free to go,” Morik argued.
“Indeed,” said the bureaucrat. “Not really free to go, but rather compelled to go. You were spared because Captain Deudermont apparently had not the heart for your execution, but understand that in the eyes of Luskan you are guilty of the crime charged. Thus, you are banished for life. Straightaway to the gate with you, and if you are ever caught in our city again, you’ll face Prisoner’s Carnival one last time. Even Captain Deudermont will not be able to intervene on your behalf. Do you understand?”
“Not a difficult task,” Morik replied.
The wormy bureaucrat glared at him, to which Morik only shrugged.
“Get them out of here,” the man commanded. One guard grabbed Morik by the arm, the other reached for Wulfgar, but a shrug and a look from the barbarian had him thinking better of it. Still, Wulfgar went along without argument, and soon the pair were out in the sunshine, unshackled and feeling free for the first time in many days.
To their surprise, though, the guards did not leave them there, escorting them all the way to the city’s eastern gate.
“Get out, and don’t come back,” one of them said as the gates slammed closed behind them.
“Why would I want to return to your wretched city?” Morik cried, making several lewd and insulting gestures at those soldiers staring down from the wall.
One lifted a crossbow and leveled it Morik’s way. “Looky,” he said. “The little rat’s already trying to sneak back in.”
Morik knew that it was time to leave, and in a hurry. He turned and started to do just that, then looked back to see the soldier, a wary look upon the man’s grizzled face, quickly lower the bow. When Morik looked back, he understood, for Captain Deudermont and his wizard sidekick were fast approaching.
For a moment, it occurred to Morik that Deudermont might have saved them from Jharkheld only because he desired to exact a punishment of his own. That fear was short-lived, for the man strode right up to Wulfgar, staring hard but making no threatening moves. Wulfgar met his stare, neither blinking nor flinching.
“Did you speak truly?” Deudermont asked.
Wulfgar snorted, and it was obvious it was all the response the captain would get.
“What has happened to Wulfgar, son of Beornegar?” Deudermont said quietly. Wulfgar turned to go, but the captain rushed around to stand before him. “You owe me this, at least,” he said.
“I owe you nothing,” Wulfgar replied.
Deudermont considered the response for just a moment, and Morik recognized that the seaman was trying to see things from Wulfgar’s point of view.
“Agreed,” the captain said, and Robillard huffed in displeasure. “You claimed your innocence. In that case, you owe nothing to me, for I did nothing but what was right. Hear me out of past friendship.”
Wulfgar eyed him coldly but made no immediate move to walk away.
“I don’t know what has caused your fall, my friend, what has led you away from companions like Drizzt Do’Urden and Catti-brie, and your adoptive father, Bruenor, who took you in and taught you the ways of the world,” the captain said. “I only pray that those three and the halfling are safe and well.”
Deudermont paused, but Wulfgar said nothing.
“There is no lasting relief in a bottle, my friend,” the captain said, “and no heroism in defending a tavern from its customary patrons. Why would you surrender the world you knew for this?”
Having heard enough, Wulfgar started to walk away. When the captain stepped in front of him again, the big man just pushed on by without slowing, with Morik scrambling to keep up.
“I offer you passage,” Deudermont unexpectedly—unexpectedly even to Deudermont—called after him.
“Captain!” Robillard protested, but Deudermont brushed him away and scrambled after Wulfgar and Morik.
“Come with me to Sea Sprite,” Deudermont said. “Together we shall hunt pirates and secure the Sword Coast for honest sailors. You will find your true self out there, I promise!”
“I would hear only your definition of me,” Wulfgar clarified, spinning back and hushing Morik, who seemed quite enthralled by the offer, “and that’s one I don’t care to hear.” Wulfgar turned and started away.
Jaw hanging open, Morik watched him go. By the time he turned back, Deudermont had likewise retreated into the city. Robillard, though, held his ground and his sour expression.
“Might I?” Morik started to ask, walking toward the wizard.
“Be gone and be fast about it, rogue,” Robillard warned. “Else you will become a stain on the ground, awaiting the next rain to wash you away.”
Clever Morik, the ultimate survivor, who hated wizards, didn’t have to be told twice.
A WILD LAND MADE WILDER
he course of events in my life have often made me examine the nature of good and evil. I have witnessed the purest forms of both repeatedly, particularly evil. The totality of my early life was spent living among it, a wickedness so thick in the air that it choked me and forced me away.
Only recently, as my reputation has begun to gain me some acceptance among the human populations-a tolerance, at least, if not a welcome—have I come to witness a more complex version of what I observed in Menzoberranzan, a shade of gray varying in lightness and darkness. So many humans, it seems, a vast majority, have within their makeup a dark side, a hunger for the macabre, and the ability to dispassionately dismiss the agony of another in the pursuit of the self.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the Prisoner’s Carnival at Luskan and other such pretenses of justice. Prisoners, sometimes guilty, sometimes not—it hardly matters—are paraded before the blood-hungry mob, then beaten, tortured, and finally executed in grand fashion. The presiding magistrate works very hard to exact the most exquisite screams of the purest agony. His job is to twist the expressions of those prisoners into the epitome of terror, the ultimate horror reflected in their eyes.
Once, when in Luskan with Captain Deudermont of the Sea Sprite, I ventured to the carnival to witness the “trials” of several pirates we had fished from the sea after sinking their ship. Witnessing the spectacle of a thousand people crammed around a grand stage, yelling and squealing with delight as these miserable pirates were literally cut into pieces, almost made me walk away from Deudermont’s ship, almost made me forego a life as a pirate hunter and retreat to the solitude of the forest or the mountains.
Of course, Catti-brie was there to remind me of the truth of it, to point out that these same pirates often exacted equal tortures upon innocent prisoners. While she admitted that such a truth did not justify the Prisoner’s Carnival—Catti-brie was so horrified by the mere thought of the place that she would not go anywhere near it—she argued that such treatment of pirates was preferable to allowing them free run of the high seas.
But why? Why any of it?
The question has bothered me for
all these years, and in seeking its answer I have come to explore yet another facet of these incredibly complex creatures called humans. Why would common, otherwise decent folk, descend to such a level as the spectacle of Prisoner’s Carnival? Why would some of the Sea Sprite’s own crew, men and women I knew to be honorable and decent, take pleasure in viewing such a macabre display of torture?
The answer, perhaps—if there is a more complicated answer than the nature of evil itself—lies in an examination of the attitudes of other races. Among the goodly races, humans alone celebrate the executions and torments of prisoners. Halfling societies would have no part of such a display—halfling prisoners have been known to die of overeating. Nor would dwarves, as aggressive as they can be. In dwarven society, prisoners are dealt with efficiently and tidily, without spectacle and out of public view. A murderer among dwarves would be dealt a single blow to the neck. Never did I see any elves at Prisoner’s Carnival, except on one occasion when a pair ventured by, then quickly left, obviously disgusted. My understanding is that in gnome society there are no executions, just a lifetime of imprisonment in an elaborate cell.
So why humans? What is it about the emotional construct of the human being that brings about such a spectacle as Prisoners Carnival? Evil? I think that too simple an answer.
Dark elves relish torture—how well I know!— and their actions are, indeed, based on sadism and evil, and an insatiable desire to satisfy the demonic hunger of the spider queen, but with humans, as with everything about humans, the answer becomes a bit more complex. Surely there is a measure of sadism involved, particularly on the part of the presiding magistrate and his torturer assistants, but for the common folk, the powerless paupers cheering in the audience, I believe their joy stems from three sources.
First, peasants in Faer n are a powerless lot, subjected to the whims of unscrupulous lords and landowners, and with the ever-present threat of some invasion or another by goblins, giants, or fellow humans, stomping flat the lives they have carved. Prisoner’s Carnival affords these unfortunate folk a taste of power, the power over life and death. At long last they feel some sense of control over their own lives.
The Spine of the World Page 20
