by Daniel Casey
“You mean…we’re being taken to The Blockade.”
“Well, you are…”
Before she could reply, a masked man came down from the stern-castle. Roth kept his eyes locked on him, unblinking. Kira tried not to cower and to stand firm, but she was confused, lost, and terrified. The man raised his hand slowly and pulled down the crimson bandana that covered the lower half of his face. It revealed a tight line of black and wet looking stitches along the jaw line of an otherwise cleanly shaven face with deep laugh lines and a kind of default smirk.
“New ship’s barber?” Roth spoke and was immediately struck by one of the guards. He didn’t waver but simply turned his head back to face the man; he locked eyes with him and swallowed what certainly had to be his own blood.
“I do my own shaving, Athingani.” The man finally spoke, his voice level and certain. He had a wellborn accent, one with a hint of Silvincia.
“Athingani? You’re a rover?” Kira whispered, unable to hide her shock.
“For all intents and purposes, Sister Ambrose. Who knows or cares about him, a troublesome tinker and trader. Perhaps even a cowardly mercenary. He could be anything and, therefore, he is nothing.” The man had been locked, bearing down on Roth the whole time, but when he finished speaking turned to her and gave a warm smile.
“You know who I am?” Kira timidly asked.
“I know all my charges. My apologies for the crudeness of our encounter in the lowlands. Things should have gone more smoothly.”
“You mean you should’ve killed us.” She said bitterly.
“Well, no, not entirely.” He shrugged.
“Who are you? Where is Goshen? Why are…”
The man waved her off, “I’m merely a courier and you my cargo. Your companion is gone, either dead or back in the arms of your precious acolytes.”
“I’m no one’s cargo.” Kira was indignant.
“Yes you are,” the man’s tone changed to one of humoring a child, “You were the cargo of your paladin at first, then I took you. I have disappeared you as I was paid to do and now will bring you to those who are going to fill my coffers with even more coin.”
“And me?” Roth spoke but the man never turned back to him, he simply got closer to Kira. He looked her up and down, his eyes unblinking, he sniffed her, and Kira had to fight from retching.
“No. Just you.” He flicked his hand dismissively and the guards grabbed Roth by the arms with such speed that Kira barely realized what was going on. Roth tried to wrest himself free, to kick out at the captors but there were too many. Soon they had his feet held tight and his head locked in their arms. A different man walked over to Roth and slowly pulled a needle from his sleeve making sure Roth saw him do so and then spiked it into Roth’s thigh. They raised Roth up above the quarterdeck railing and pitched him back. Kira screamed as she watched them throw Roth overboard. The leader grabbed her upper arm tighter than she had ever been held before, with more sure violence than she had every felt.
“Now you are alone. Mine alone.” He hissed.
The Stony Shore, 45th of Lammas
Reg couldn’t have been less interested in mending the fence. After finding and then herding the stray sheep back, he was tired and annoyed. This would be the fifth time he had to repair his fence in the last week. The sheep weren’t responsible; he was, for buying such a decrepit homestead. Well, not so decrepit. The house was fine but the fields and fences were in complete disrepair, and Colm was too young to be in charge of this alone.
Besides, Reg thought, the boy’s mind wandered. He’d probably come home leaving more gaps than when he had gone out.
He knew he’d need to walk the entire line of the fence looking to rebuild and repair it. Yet it seemed as though he could never get it all done, somehow the sheep kept finding all the weak spots, all the breaks. He was just barely keeping pace, and being harried by an inanimate object and sheep was infuriating. Today he’d headed out at dawn to work on the fence, but it had turned into an all morning and afternoon trek to find three meandering ewes. Bringing the animals back to the fold had left him with only enough time to repair the spot where they had loosed. Now the sun was lowing, painting the sky a soft amber.
He had driven the post deep and now had just locked in the third and final bar. He stepped back and looked at his handiwork. It was well done but it certainly stood out, the fresh looking wood seemed a bright umber flanked by the rest of the fence in its deep decay gray hue. Reg tossed his hammer into his canvas satchel; it clanked as it struck his other tools. He leaned on the newly patched fence to test it and to rest. There were moments when living along the Stony Shore seemed a dream to Reg. Even with all the work, it was so much lovelier than the sad stone village where he had grown up. The Novosar we as cold as the rocks they farmed and never thought to raise their heads up beyond their hovels. But here, Reg felt different—anonymous still, but wider, able to take in so much more of the world. He gazed at the Siracenes rising up in front of him, then turned his head to look south over the vast, quiet Novostos Sea as it blended into the horizon.
The five acres of fencing snaked around the hills of the craggy coastline, a hoary boundary. Reg was fairly certain he had bitten off more than he could chew, not just the fence mending for the day, but the whole homestead. He had known he was not a farmer and had reasoned that shepherding would suit him.
At least I’ve broken my back breaking even, he thought as he moved through the pastures to his house.
Arriving back at the cabin, he didn’t hear or see Colm anywhere. More importantly, he didn’t smell anything. The lack of food awaiting him triggered a visceral reaction; he felt his stomach give an angry churn. Reg shook his head; Colm should’ve had the stew already made. He went to go poke his head into the barn to look for the boy yet saw nothing but his horses, the old mares Kia and Lo. He strolled over to the edge of his property, which looked out over the Novostos before descending to the beach. Reg spied Colm down on the shore more than a few spans out into the sand revealed by the low tide. The boy had a bucket and rake, he must’ve been clamming but Reg was still annoyed that their meal wouldn’t be ready until dark. The boy seemed preoccupied though and Reg strained to see what he was doing standing still staring at some bit of salvage. Reg squinted, raised his hand to shade his eyes, and realized Colm wasn’t inspecting some bit of wood but poking a body.
Rikonen, 49th of Lammas
Wynne could see these weren’t mere traders, but they weren’t quite corsairs either. These men were something else—seafarers certainly but not marines though definitely mercenaries. The girl was clearly cowering. Whatever these men had done to her to keep her in line, to keep her from trying to run off it had been more than enough. She stood at the center of three with her shoulders hunched in, her head down but her eyes darting all around; she was jittery, leery. They had met The Blockade, delivered men and supplies, then found a way to get this cadre through to the Alder Council. These were survivalists, opportunistic and capricious. He knew the argument always made was that such avaricious men could be relied upon, you knew exactly where their loyalty lied and it was with the most coin. Yet, Wynne knew that was no kind of loyalty, it was merely a bit in the mouth of a wild beast.
In front of the girl were two more men, the ship captain and his first mate. The captain had gauze peeking through from under the collar of his blackened leather jerkin, which stood out from the others by having metal studs and a crimson bandana around his neck. His first mate was dressed the most simply of all of them, a long sleeved black wool tunic, except that across his chest was a belt on the back of which were several fist-sized pouches. His face was older than the rest, not stern just more weathered. The captain had the swagger free swords always started out with; he was still in his adventuring stage of life. Maybe, if he made it through a few more adventures, he’d live to be a braggart and die a bore.
“I’m not quite sure I follow your reasoning, Captain Salda.” The Prime Alder said suspiciou
sly.
“We have made sure that The Cathedral’s envoys have failed in their mission. They do not suspect your involvement in the least. In fact, they have no idea that any outside intervention has happened.”
“How so?” Another Alder asked.
“We planted one of ours on a suicide mission as the paladin was sent to Bandra—who has since killed the crusader and pinned responsibility on a free ranger accompanying. The Cathedral now believes that this free ranger bandit assaulted their envoys, then tried to ransom them. Anyone to say contrary is now dead.”
“How did you convince one of yours to do this?” Wynne asked.
“None of your concern. You only need to know, I’ve erased my tracks better than anyone could have imagined. I’ve made your little plan that much more secure. And for that, I believe I deserve…a bonus.” Asa waved his hand in a casual manner as though having just stated an irrevocable truth.
“The woman looks rough.” A third Alder added.
“She was more than a bit factious, but we broke her of that.”
“And how did you do that?”
“I doubt you good Alders are interested; just know my methods have made her pliant.”
“I doubt that.” Wynne locked eyes with Asa, “In fact, I suspect that your methods have turned her into a stunned mess. I suspect that you’re presenting us not with The Cathedral’s envoy but with a bullied, beaten, and raped shell of a woman.”
Asa clenched his jaw and spoke through his teeth, “I brought you what you asked for. What you paid for.”
“No, you didn’t.” Wynne was nonchalant in his dismissal.
“Yes, I did. I brought you The Cathedral’s envoy. I killed off its guardian. I made sure that The Cathedral knew nothing of your scheme. And you owe me. You all owe me!”
“You seem fairly outraged for a smuggler.” Wynne knew this kind of man, he would bellow and moan, but in the end, he would sulk away with his pittance. If Wynne had it his way, Asa would be thrown into the deepest pit to rot.
“I am…”
“Our fellow Alder has spoken out of turn, Captain Salda.” The Prime Alder neither looked at Wynne nor at the captain but simply motioned for something to be brought forward as he gazed through the group.
“Here is your compensation as agreed upon prior.” A small chest was put at the feet of the first mate and opened; it was filled with aurei. The mate knelt and slowly sifted his hand through it. He looked up at the captain and nodded.
“And the additional?”
“There will be no further coin granted you.” The pirates began to grumble but the Prime Alder continued, “You have gone beyond what was asked of you and it would be opprobrious for us to deny that. However your treatment of the envoy is contemptible.” The captain was stewing and it looked as though as he was tensed and about to fly into a rage.
The civic guardsmen had their hands on their swords when the Prime Alders spoke again, “You will be granted what supplies you need and want from our stores, you will then be granted leave.” The Alders stood to leave.
“Supplies? That is my reward! This is hardly worth my effort.”
“You are welcome to express your sentiments to the Silvincians on your way out.” As the Prime Alder left, he nodded at Wynne who then gestured at the civic guards. In a calm but definitive manner, they drew their swords and lowered their pikes to pin the pirates in place before they could draw their own weapons. Wynne stepped forward and brushed passed Asa; he took the girl’s hands in his own and gently unbound her. She shivered but didn’t resist, he then lead her away. Once he had left the room, the civics raised their weapons and withdrew. A door at the far end of the hall opened. The pirates stood still.
“Take,” Asa growled and then after a deep sigh, “Take all that you can carry and then more, leave them with as little as possible.” The pirates nodded, grabbed the chest, and left through the door. The first mate lingered.
“That will hardly satisfy the men.”
“When we get back aboard the tender, once we’ve loaded it up with these…supplies…”
The first mate nodded, “I’ll take care of it,” and followed the men out. Asa stood for a few moments longer clenching and unclenching his gloved fist in a slow build-up to a deep brawl. Asa turned, his fury clear as he kicked the already open door several times until it threw a few splinters then he disappeared down the hall after his men. A moment later, Wynne stepped forward from the shadows gazing after him, just behind him was the Prime Alder. Or, at least, the man who had stood as the Prime Alder.
“How do we know he won’t go to The Blockade?” He asked his tone now clearly deferential.
“Because he’s a coward.” Wynne said flatly.
Bandra, 49th of Lammas
The binders weren’t uncomfortable, but Goshen twisted his wrists as some kind of tick and that was causing them to rub his skin raw. To either side of the paladin stood three armed acolytes, which seemed unnecessary to his mind since he was stripped down to his small clothes. Goshen stood nearly naked, upright but not defiant, rather casually proud. His chest, arms, and thighs were quite white, untanned and hairless, riddled with scars. There was still a bandage over the wound he had suffered in the lowlands, but now he looked healthy and clean.
The acolytes stood in hooded gray rough spun hemp robes that darkened their faces, each holding in one hand a silver pike. Their countenance had always been unnerving to strangers and natives alike. The hall was huge, an echoing expanse, with the mosaic floor as the only extravagance, the tiny tiles were brightly colored—cerulean blue and emerald green. The walls were blank, lifeless gray stone into which was cut thin long slits that passed as windows. At the fore of the hall was a plain altar, too low to be a stage but the seven lecterns that lined it certainly gave that suggestion.
Hands bound in front of him, ankles shackled and linked by a short chain that only afforded shuffling steps, and wearing a collar from which two narrow chains lead to the belts of the nearest acolytes, Goshen was moved to the center of the hall before the empty altar. Doors creaked open on either side of the altar and obscured figures emerged taking their place behind each lectern. The two acolytes on the outside of Goshen stepped toward the walls and seemed to release some rope which then drew up curtains that had covered the larger windows above the altar. Light poured into the hall, down directly upon the lecterns as the shadowy figures stepped up to reveal themselves at each. They wore finely woven robes, bright white with a sort of iridescent sheen embroidered with gold at the collar and sleeves. These were the justiciars, Goshen realized, the clergy that would be his judges and jury over this inquisition.
This was the last thing he could have imagined happening to him—a trial, an accusation of apostasy. No one had told him what had happened to Kira, no one had told him how he came to Bandra’s Golden Pagodas and now to this lifeless grey chapel and no one seemed to explain to him why he was being held as a criminal. He was grateful to have his wits about him again. The fevered days after the marsh ambush were all a blur, some faces and some snippets of conversation, and he was unable to discern what was real and what was dream. His muscles were sore, but he didn’t feel weak. The justiciars were nearly indiscernible from one another and each had a blank, emotionless expression. The judge in the center cleared his throat, opened a thin ledger, and began to read.
“This tribunal is assembled to inquire into the events of these last few weeks of Lammas occurring in the Anhrathid lowlands, Anhra Harbor, the eastern waters of our Novostos Sea, and the piers of Bandra to our great Sulecin envoys alm Kira Ambrose and paladin Goshen Staad, who is before us this day.”
“You are Goshen Staad.” The justiciar at the far right said. Goshen nodded, jangling the chains around his collar.
The justiciar next to first cut in harshly, “Speak up.”
“I am.” Goshen tried to stare him down but the man was unmoved.
“Good,” he continued, “And you were charged with escorting alm Ambrose f
rom Sulecin to Lappala.”
“I am.”
“You were.” The justiciar in the center spoke, “But our fine alm is now dead.”
Goshen was shocked, “I…I thought she was aboard the ship I was…was in your care…”
“She was on the ship, but your abettor was successful in extinguishing her light.” The justiciar spoke coldly.
“My abettor?” Goshen flinched.
A justiciar on the right brushed Goshen’s question aside, “It would be pointless for you to pretend you did not have an accomplice.”
“We know that a free ranger…” The man in the center began.
“A woman nonetheless.” The justiciar at the far left said with palpable disgust.
“…a free ranger brought you into our city and once she did she proceeded to kill alm Ambrose and then abandoned you, evading The Cathedral’s justice.”
Goshen shook his head, “I have no memory of this woman.”
“That is convenient.” The far left justiciar added.
“Why would she wait until we arrived to strike? Why wouldn’t she eliminate us in route?” Goshen asked him pointedly.
“Why were you coming to Bandra in the first place?” The justiciar on the far right asked.
Goshen turned to address the question, “We were ambushed by bandits on the high road. I fought off most of them but I was struck by a poisoned quarrel.”
“How did you make it to Anhra?” Another justiciar asked.
“Ambrose wouldn’t have been able to get you there herself.” The far left justiciar seemed to be set upon condemning Goshen.
“There was another, aided us in the skirmish.”
“The free ranger.” The central justiciar said.
Goshen shook his head, “A free ranger. But not a woman.”
“So there is a fourth face in this?” The far left justiciar seemed appalled.
