Mr. Harold Marthas, in the name of His Royal Majesty King Alonso vas Arateaus and by order of High Magistrate Aeronas Harking, is hereby ordered to appear before the Court of Magistrates within Castle Araetaus in Marion Bay on the First of May in the Year Five Hundred Twelve, to inform inquiries into the dubious circumstances regarding the death of Elizabeth Guiseppe, who stood accused of witchcraft as of the Thirteenth of March. Mr. Marthas must appear in person to stay the ruling of a guilty verdict on the charges of murder.
Send no proxies. Any failure to respond or appear in person will be considered an act of hostile resistance against the Crown.
Signed and officiated,
Magistrate Ronan Merriweather
Post Scriptum:
Personally speaking, it would be in your best interest to dress impeccably, to shave, bathe, and cut your hair. The better half of H.M. Harking’s decision not to hang you rests on how you decide to present yourself. I would be the one tasked with recording your execution in person, hence I ask that you save us both the trouble of a very disagreeable afternoon.
The Knights
Sir Kolbe spoke before Alonso found the need. The King gradually lowered his quirked brow while he sipped on his warm mead, peering into the slots in the knight’s helm. After his name was spoken in full, Alonso pointedly set down his mug and allowed the Lady her moment of profound embarrassment.
The King stood out of his chair at the conclusion of Kolbe’s brief speech, planting both cuffed hands on the table. Softly blue eyed and not quite six feet tall, Alonso relied on his sharp brow and good breeding to assert his royal presence in the dining hall. Amid this meager handful of battered souls and one well-dressed noblewoman, he was nearly startled to have the effect that he did. His authority within the Court of Magistrates—men who had seen the King mature from boyhood, some even from infancy—was often less felt, considering his lack in experience and stature.
“Forgive me, my lady, for not announcing myself first.” Despite the mercy in his words, the King did not speak them kindly. A breach in etiquette was at the bottom of his current list of concerns and he wished only to move on. “You understand the cause for my discretion, considering the predicament your House contends with outside.”
Alonso sized Miss Perrine up for half a moment, realizing she was exceedingly young. A grown woman to be sure, but a questionable stand-in for the head of the household. Still, there was something sharp about her. Refined and stern. Perhaps even more so than the young King.
“My lady, are you
certain your father cannot join us?” The question came after Alonso had looked Perrine from head to toe. “As Sir Kolbe demonstrated, the news my men and I bring is grave indeed, and if your constitution is too fragile to bear it…”
When Lady Anquis did not wilt, the Alonso discarded his hesitation and proceeded, assuming (perhaps out of foolish optimism) that she was competent.
“Not only are my men worse for wear, but they are two less. Sir Konrad and Sir Gerald perished retrieving me from the Viceni border.” His eyes slid away for a moment, resting at the center of the table. “Perhaps you recognize Sir Gawain,” Alonso extended a hand, “who disappeared from his post here some time ago. Held prisoner in Vicenna, so I’m told, but I have not heard his tale in full.”
Clashes at the Viceni-Aretan border were hardly uncommon. Why the mages chose to imprison an Aretan knight, which Alonso would usually consider a high offense, seemed meaningless now. Gawain’s tale was most likely a mundane one, as indeed, the Magi and the Knights were eternal rivals. Each had something to fear from the other, and would be compelled to protect their people from any perceived threat.
But the days of those conflicts were over. It was still impossible to fathom.
“As mad as it sounds, I will personally attest to the work of demons, or
some hellish creature from the bowels of the earth. I saw them with my own eyes, Lady Anquis. Great, spidery beasts, climbing out of the sands. Were it not for Captain Serona and Sir Linus, they may have taken
me as well.” The King turned his head to acknowledge Kolbe. “Sir Linus felled two of the creatures on his own, and pulled that
thing from the clutches of their leader.”
The scepter resonated a steady aura of gravity and power, palpable to any trained mage. It was more than a simple conduit, and yet also somehow less. Its power was limited to absolute specificity, capable of only one spell, but it was extraordinarily single minded. Focused as the point of any sharpened blade. More than that, the pressure it exerted through the room seemed to pulsate, coming in waves like a soft heartbeat. It was
alive.
Ignorant to its effects, Alonso unfolded his hand again, this time toward the mage.
“I must disclose to you that there is a mage among us, Marcus of Vicenna.” Not the first of his kind Udny Pass had seen, but perhaps one of the last. “I have asked him to travel with me, but I must make clear that he is not immune to Aretan law.” If Marcus became a problem, the Anquis guards were given leave to do as they saw fit. “Now, Lady Anquis, mage, Sir Gawain—you have been in proximity to Vicenna
far longer than I have. Is there
anything you can tell me of this weapon or the creatures that carried it? A nation lies dead, but who is this hitherto unknown enemy?”
The King held still after speaking, listening to a distant commotion in a far off room.
“What do I hear? Is someone crying out?”
The Ytharien
The city guard at front began to sag, overcome with pity for the pouting girl. While his sword dipped, he glanced back at Rodney and grimaced his wordless question. Of course
he would buckle under the pressure of a begging woman and one foolish bowman, even with claims of Eretol murderesses murmured through the refugee tents.
“Oh for God’s
sake!” Rodney pushed ahead, keeping his crossbow aimed while he shouldered pass his partner and took the lead. “Firstly, you,” he twisted and looked back at Tobey, the stray refugee, “shut up. Secondly,” he swung back around to the elves, “I’ve got dozens of refugees here claiming that
elves and
natives not only drove them from their village, but
murdered their kin and burned down their homes. And you think you can just come stumbling back up here because the road to Vicenna is out?”
Rodney waved them in with his crossbow, issuing an order to march inside. His partner straightened with a shock and decided to stop being such a useless lout. He began to move alongside the elves, his sword at the ready while he kept pace with the blonde, willowy elf woman.
“We’ll let you in alright,” Rodney added, walking after the dark haired elf with the gimp arm. “Right into a cold cell, where you’ll wait for justice for what you’ve done.”
“
Don’t resist,” Lothren cautioned in elven tongue. Although Annara was not fluent with the language, he doubted she planned to fight in her state. The elves were proud and needed an order. “
We need rest, and we cannot weather the desert in this state. We still have a chance to escape if we—”
“Quiet!” Rodney kicked Lothren’s leg out from under him, and the elf crumbled forward onto his knees. Lothren barked a short scream as his broken arm swung from his shoulder. “Get up!”
Lothren stumbled back to his feet, promising something bloody and brutal under his breath, still in his mother tongue. While he caught his breath, the front guard leaned toward Tobias as he passed by.
“You want to defend them?” he asked lowly. “Go with them, attend their questioning.” Or, if he wanted, he could simply identify them as the elven murderers they were and see to their hanging, but it would be a shame to see a rope around the native girl’s pretty neck.
The prisoners would be marched through the city—straight through an alley of refugee tents for all of the remaining Viceni to see. Two more decorated swordsman joined the parade, ensuring that the elves would come peaceably. Whether the raid had saved their lives or not, the last memory these poor, nationless dregs had was running desperately into the unknown to survive while the Ytharien set aflame their entire lives behind them. For all they knew, the
elves had brought about the final destruction through their country, through whatever foreign elven magicks they possessed.
And some,
some, may have simply resented the elves for giving them the chance to survive the death of their country. To live out the rest of their existence in exile in foreign lands.
Incensed simply at the sight of elves, the refugees picked up whatever was in arm’s reach and hurled it at the unbound prisoners. Rocks, hard bread, food too rotten for even stray dogs to eat. Rodney shouted a curse at one of the curs when a poorly aimed stone thudded off his spaulder.
As they neared the Anquis Keep dungeon, he leaned toward one of the waiting city stewards.
“Inform the Lady, and fetch the old inquisitor,” Rodney growled, having run out of patience. “I don’t care if the man’s retired; if any one of these vermin is a mage, he’ll be able to sniff them out.”
After being forced down a narrow staircase along a stone wall, down into the base of a square yard bordered with barred doors and shackles, the lot were shoved into a large cell, barred with a grid flat iron slats. They were given the view of one dark-haired man, one of the refugees no less, stood locked in one of the stocks after an act of violence against an Aretan citizen. Left to their straw-covered floor, Rodney locked the cell and began to lead his men back to the gate.
At least, now, they were out of the open sun.
