Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

  The simpler answer, of course, was slavery. The king had outlawed the practice years ago, but that hadn’t stopped most of the slavers. It hadn’t stopped the religious fanatics either. Many of the more demanding Yordician gods and goddesses required blood offerings and it was not uncommon for the faithful to sacrifice their slave’s blood rather than their own.

  But even with these few possibilities, Josephine had no definitive answer for Edgar. She had no idea what exactly she had gotten involved in. Or rather . . . she thought about that for a moment and despite the implications she revised her consideration. She had no idea what exactly her father had been involved in. Before having a change of heart, her father had been working for Lord Ragget and Mister Lipscombe. His reasons might have been pure, but his results had been decidedly not. Otherwise, why would he have confronted them? Would she discover the ugly truth once the secrets contained inside the magical discs were unlocked and revealed? She shuddered at the thought of learning something unpleasant about her beloved father.

  “Can you move?” she asked, pushing her troubling thoughts aside.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Not that!”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “I dunno.” There was a pause. “I can wiggle my fingers.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “And it’s going to stay that way.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Jo, it’s been a rough day.”

  “It’s not going to get any easier.”

  Edgar sighed. “Why?”

  “Because this wagon is heading straight for Motre-liare.”

  Edgar began wiggling more than his fingers. “We gotta get out of here! Now!”

  “Settle down and be quiet,” Jo said sharply. She placed a hand on his chest. His heart raced beneath her touch. “They’ll hear you.”

  “I don’t . . .” Edgar inhaled sharply and winced. “Oh! My side . . . my side . . .”

  Josephine clamped her hand across Edgar’s mouth. “We need to be ready to slip out of here the moment the wagon stops,” she said softly in his ear.

  Edgar said something. Josephine eased her palm off his lips. “Why don’t we go now?” he whispered.

  Josephine leaned in close and started telling him everything that had happened to her since she’d kissed his lips. The words came out much the same as they did when she’d talked to Neko Blood, and this time, like that time, she paid little attention to what she was saying. It was just easier to detach her mind from the events, to hover above the memories like a bird soaring free in the wind. Edgar offered his condolences when he learned about the deaths of her family members but otherwise he listened quietly and didn’t interrupt until she got to the part about the rape.

  “I’ll fucking kill him,” Edgar growled. “I’ll tear him apart and-”

  “If anyone is going to kill Lipscombe,” Josephine cut him off, “it’ll be me.”

  “But . . .”

  “He raped me, not you.”

  “I just . . .”

  “He raped me! Not you!”

  Edgar fell silent. Josephine waited until her own racing heart calmed and her clenched fists opened and the droning noise in her head subsided before she took a deep breath and continued with her story. When she reached the part about killing Owen, she faltered, unsure how to proceed.

  “Then what happened?” Edgar broke his silence.

  “Owen . . .” She hated lying to him, but she had no choice. She’d lost too much recently, and now with Edgar back, she couldn’t risk losing him again. She searched her imagination for some sort of story to tell him. Something believable. “Owen . . . told me to hide. He told me he’d take care of the two men.”

  “But . . .” Edgar tilted his head just enough to look at her. “Owen ain’t driving the wagon, is he?”

  Josephine’s lips trembled. “No.”

  Edgar was silent again. Josephine’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness under the tarp and she saw his face harden with grief. Finally, he said. “He’s back here with us, ain’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lipscombe is yours to do with as you please, but the rest of these bastards . . .” Edgar squeezed his eyes closed. “They killed my brother and I mean to see then dead, Jo. Do you hear me? I ain’t resting until they’re all dead.”

  Josephine cringed at not only Edgar’s cold tone, but also at the thought of what he would someday do if he ever learned the truth. Could she make him understand? Perhaps if she confessed her lie right now, he might listen. He might forgive her.

  But what if he didn’t?

  “Edgar, I . . .”

  The steady drumming of the raindrops ended, and the clatter of the wagon wheels quieted.

  “I think we’re inside a building,” Edgar offered. His hand found hers and he gave it a squeeze. There wasn’t a lot of strength in his grip.

  Josephine nodded. Damn the timing. The truth would have to wait.

  “I ain’t sure how steady I’ll be,” Edgar said. “You might have to help me walk.”

  Josephine tightened her own grip. “I’ll be right beside you.”

  “I rather like when . . .” He started in his usual teasing manner and then stopped and shook his head.

  “You rather like when . . . what?”

  “Nevermind.”

  “Don’t be like that, Edgar.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know damn well like what. I told you I was raped and now you’re acting different around me. What were you going to say?”

  “I . . .”

  She punched him in the arm.

  “I was going to say, I rather like when you’re a few paces ahead of me. You’ve gotta . . . oh hell, you’ve gotta beautiful bum and I’d follow it anywhere.”

  “That’s better,” Josephine’s face warmed. “I’m going to hold you to it.”

  “Even better.”

  “I meant those words.” Josephine’s face reddened further. “I’m going to hold you to those words.”

  “You can hold me anyway you want . . . though if I have a choice in the matter, I’d prefer we both be naked.”

  Josephine held her tongue. She’d asked for it. And besides, given a choice between Edgar’s old familiar banter and his new, cold ominous tone, she’d pick the former. The old Edgar was warm, comforting, and something solid for her to hold onto, something that reminded her of her previous life. It might now be all based on a lie, but she’d hang onto it for as long as she could.

  She gave his hand another squeeze. “I’ll be back.”

  “Where you going?”

  She didn’t waste time answering. Instead, she squirmed out from under Owen and slid awkwardly down toward the end of the wagon. She hoped her movements weren’t visible beneath the wet tarp and if they were, perhaps with any luck, nobody was watching. When no cry of alarm sounded, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  The wagon slowed to a stop. As quickly as she could manage, Josephine slipped out from under the tarp and rolled off the open tailgate. She allowed herself only a moment to look around. They appeared to be on some sort of wide catwalk inside a rather large, cavernous warehouse and while she and the wagon were blanketed in shadows, beyond the railing’s edge was the familiar orange glow of a large forge fire. The air was hot and moist and noisy with the sounds of clanking machinery and it stank of blood and metal and death. She couldn’t explain it, but she immediately had the feeling that . . . something very wrong . . . was being bred here.

  The small hairs on her neck rose and her stomach clenched in fear. She wanted so badly to flee this place. It was a mistake to have come this far, but now that she was here, she decided she might as well see it through to the end. She had to know what had happened to her mother and sister.

  She stuck her head under the tarp, found Edgar’s familiar tattered boots and gave them a hard tug.

  “How many you got up there?” a voice called out. Josephine stiffened.
It sounded as if the voice was coming from somewhere down below and off to her left.

  “Twelve,” Gruff shouted back. His voice died quickly in the vastness of the room. “Half drugged, half dead.”

  Josephine eased out from under the tarp again and waited for Edgar to join her.

  “You know what to do with them.”

  Edgar squirmed toward the back of the wagon, but his movements were slow. Too slow. Gruff and Squeaky jumped down from the bench up front, their boots clanging against the metal catwalk. Josephine crouched behind the wagon and looked for a place to hide. She found none. The loud buzzing inside her head sounded again and she knew immediately what needed to be done.

  Her hand dropped to the butt of her crossbow as she straightened. Gruff and Squeaky were on either side of the wagon each less than ten feet away. Her arm came up. Their eyes widened. Their mouths gaped open. Hands dropped to sword hilts. Her finger caressed the trigger. A bolt buried into the first man’s chest. A grunt of pain. The other smiled as his sword cleared its sheath. The blade whistled through the humid air. She swayed back. The tip slipped beneath her chin, missed her neck. She leveled the crossbow again. The man’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t have known about the magical weapon’s reloading ability. She wasn’t inclined to tell him.

  His confusion lasted only a fraction of a second. He landed on his back moments after the first. Dead and . . . twitching. Twitching. She stepped over to the second man and pulled the trigger again.

  Dead and dead.

  She turned back and found Edgar leaning against the rear of the wagon staring at her. His forehead was damp with sweat. He looked a mess; blood-stained shirt, piss-stained trousers, and his long hair matted down on one side and standing up on the other. His gaze took in what she’d done and came back to meet hers. “Who are you?”

  Josephine sheathed her crossbow as she walked past him toward the catwalk’s railing. Who was she, indeed? Huntress or caregiver? Predator or prey? Strong woman or frightened girl? She’d played all sorts of roles growing up and, on the stage, and now with her future staring her in the face it was time to decide who she was going to be.

  She glanced down at the work being done below her on the warehouse’s lower level and all thoughts of her future fled her mind. Her legs weakened, and she gripped the handrail to keep from falling. She’d been right earlier . . .

  Something very wrong was being bred here.

  Evil.

  chapter 10

  The beating rain had lessened to a steady drizzle by the time Lumist reached the Tower Square. He had left Kylpin and the Prancing Piper about an hour earlier, fearing what the discordant tones of the clanging bells would mean and now, soaked, cold and feeling a bit worn out from the steady climb up from the docks, he was in no mood for what he saw. Thousands of people, mostly Yordicians, jammed the streets in every direction and hundreds more packed the large square immediately surrounding the tall, black obelisk housing the magical bells. Lumist shuddered. What a nightmare!

  He picked his way carefully forward, moving steadily toward the glowing square. Scores of street lamps and hundreds of torches, all hissing in the rain, gave the air an acrid, burning stench. His eyes watered. Once he was close enough to see the balcony jutting from near the top of the bell tower, he stopped moving forward and searched for a safe place to stand, preferably a spot out of the rain where he could keep his back against one of the stone buildings ringing the square. It was an old habit from his time as a warrior-knight.

  Never leave your back exposed.

  He glanced around at his chosen location. He was near the corner of one of Belyne’s largest banks on the north side of the square. From here, he’d be able to witness the announcement first-hand, and still be able to slip away unnoticed if need be. Even though the streets were clogged behind him, he picked out two relatively dark and empty alleys into which he could duck and hide if the press of flesh got too much for him. He was just not fond of tight spaces anymore.

  Especially when those crowding around him were Yordicians!

  Lumist took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders beneath his soggy woolen shirt. A nervous energy filled the air. In his younger days, he had thrived on this kind of excitement. During tournaments, especially ones held in the coliseum, the roar of the crowd would shake the ground beneath his armored feet and bring his blood to a frothy roil. He had always enjoyed the thrill of the blood taking him, the feeling of invincibility coursing through his veins. At no other time in his life had he ever felt so alive!

  It was when the coliseum was quiet and still that the ghosts of his past victories returned. The same held true in his daily life. It was one of the reasons why he’d lived next to a busy blacksmith. The constant hammering even late into the evening had kept his home from being too quiet. After twenty years, he still saw their faces in the stillness of the night, whether awake or in his dreams, and it was always their eyes which haunted him most. Their blank, dead eyes. Looking. Staring. Hating.

  The ringing stopped. The last of the magical vibrations coursed outward and eventually faded until the only sound remaining was the hissing of the torches. Someone coughed. A baby cried and was quickly shushed. Lumist found he was holding his breath. Glancing around, he noticed he wasn’t the only one. All eyes were raised toward the dark balcony thirty feet or so above their heads.

  What news had caused the bells to ring? Was another invading army approaching the city walls? Lumist glanced at the night sky. The storm clouds were breaking up as they headed east out over the crescent bay. He doubted if the news concerned the weather.

  Ian? Lumist shivered. An hour ago, both he and Kylpin had shared the same dreadful premonition. The bells had tolled for Ian. But why? What could have happened during his visit with the king?

  Torches around the balcony’s edge burst to life and an echoed gasp rose from the crowd. Thousands pressed forward, eager to hear the news.

  A tall, stately, white-haired man strode onto the balcony. Lumist recognized him immediately and his hand reflexively reached up and touched his scarred neck.

  Sir Walter Merriday, the city administrator.

  Lumist’s lips thinned into a flat line. Sir Merriday handled the mundane day-to-day affairs of the city while the king ruled the country. Merriday was also a former knight of the king’s elite guard and the only man to have ever beaten him at a tournament.

  “Citizens of Belyne!” Sir Merriday began in a solemn tone. He stepped forward and gripped the balcony railing. “I come before you now during a time of great sorrow!”

  Lumist heard some cries beginning already among those in the crowd.

  “Our beloved king, Henrik Edmund Rutherford the first of his name, was slain this night.”

  Lumist’s knees buckled and he sagged against the wall behind him. Though he disliked most things Yordician, he had to admit the old king had been a decent man and a good leader. While saddened by this news, Lumist composed himself quickly and recovered his balance. Those around him reacted more strongly. Some fell to their knees overcome by grief. Others beat their chest and wailed in anguish. Still others shouted their rage. Sir Merriday raised his arms and called for silence. Long minutes passed before the white-haired knight was able to continue.

  “People! Citizens of Belyne! I understand your sorrow, your distress, your misery. I share it too!” He paused again, apparently overcome by his own grief. “But Citizens . . . hear me now! Take heart! I have just learned the King-Slayer has been captured.”

  The massive crowd erupted again, this time roaring with shouted threats and angry cries of vengeance and murder. Sir Merriday patted the air in a vain attempt to quiet the boisterous and emotional crowd. “The King-Slayer will be held in the royal dungeon until his trial . . .”

  “Tell us his name!” a voice shouted above the rest.

  “Tell us his name!” more voices called out. “Tell us his name!”

  Sir Merriday gestured again for silence, but the angry chants only grew loud
er and louder, “Tell us his name! Tell us his name!”

  Even Lumist found himself whispering the words as he wiped the rain from his face. A wave of relief settled over him despite the terrible news and the heaviness sitting on his chest lessened. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly between his clenched teeth.

  His earlier hunch had been wrong. The bells hadn’t tolled for anything concerning Ian; they had tolled to announce the passing of a righteous king.

  But then, just as quickly as his fear had subsided, it returned tenfold. Had Ian been visiting the king when he was murdered? Had he been killed too?

  Panic filled his heart. Lumist didn’t care who the king-slayer was anymore. His only concern was for his dear friend.

  Was Ian still alive?

  chapter 11

  Red.

  That was the color of pain. Ian didn’t know why. It just was.

  What was in the vault?

  Ian cringed as he remembered the unbelievable sight.

  Tell me, what was in the vault.

  The contents of his friend’s vaults had filled his own. Everything that had been missing from Glavinas Roth, Lumist Tunney and Cuci Kindacaid had been found.

  Why did you steal from your friends?

  “I didn’t!” Ian shouted into the darkness.

  Red.

  There was no escape from it.

  Are you sure?

  He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. No one else could have entered his vault. Not even Cecily.

  There were items belonging to Lord Devin Ragget and Prince Edmund Rutherford in your vault too.

  “I didn’t do it!” Ian cried out.

  Red.

  Tell me, how did those items appear inside your vault?

  He didn’t know. Someone else had to have put them inside . . .

  But you said yourself, your vault was impregnable.

  “I don’t know . . . I just don’t know . . .”

  Or, do you know, and you’re afraid to admit it?

  Ian frowned.

  You will feel better once you admit the truth.