Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Silence.

  Admit the truth and all of this will be over.

  Silence.

  Red!

  The pain will end when you tell me the truth!

  Ian bit back a scream.

  Pain then . . .

  RED!

  chapter 12

  “Tell us his name! Tell us his name!”

  On the balcony, overlooking the angry crowd, Sir Merriday bowed his head and clasped his hands together. The chanting grew louder with each passing moment and the ground shook from their stomping. The obelisk began to sway, not much, but just enough to make him feel a bit queasy. Sir Merriday swallowed down the bile that rose to the back of his throat. This was not a good situation. Too many had turned out to hear the news and now . . . there was no telling what the mob would do if they learned the identity of King Henrik’s killer.

  Or . . . Sir Merriday hesitated . . . he could keep that news secret. What purpose would it serve to name Lord Ian Weatherall now? The Gyunwarian Ambassador had always been a cordial man and he and the king had been good friends for many years. Even after learning the truth, he was having a hard time accepting it . . .

  And yet . . . the evidence against Lord Ian was substantial. Sir Merriday quickly considered the arguments against the foreign ambassador. A dagger with a distinctive ornamental hilt was found protruding from the king’s chest. The murder weapon belonged to Lord Ian. Scrolls signed by the king giving the Scylthian outpost to Lord Ragget were found by a trio of royal wardens crumpled in Lord Ian’s cloak. The loss of the outpost would severely curtail Lord Ian’s income and provided him a motive for the brutal killing. Additionally, items once contained within the royal vault and four others were found inside Lord Ian’s vault. This suggested that Lord Ian had not only attempted to recoup his lost income, but that he had also become the criminal commonly known as the Thief of Belyne. And finally, pesky rumors about Lord Ian committing fraud and adultery had been circulating throughout the city since midmorning.

  Those charges by themselves would be devastating in court, but perhaps most damning of all; the prince had confronted Lord Ian in the king’s chambers moments after the king had been killed and no one else had been admitted to see His Majesty after he had retired.

  Sir Merriday looked down at the growing mass of angry citizens and sighed. Life had been easier when he’d been a knight. Battle and war, though grim, were relatively simple affairs. Kill or be killed. Survive to fight another day or die and pass on to the next life. What could be easier?

  But as the city administrator, his opponents were not so clearly defined nor so easily defeated. He could not simply use a sword against his foes, though he had often considered it when talks turned to the city’s budget, and he had quickly learned a knife in the back was just as deadly in the courts as it was on the battlefield. Sir Merriday ran a hand through his rain-dampened white hair. He couldn’t shake the feeling Lord Ian would learn that lesson all too well in the coming days.

  And, he realized, if he revealed Lord Ian’s name to the crowd now, he would only be helping to twist that blade . . .

  Sir Merriday straightened and raised his arms over his head again, gesturing for silence. The restless crowd finally stilled, waited.

  “Good people of Belyne,” he called down to them. “After the trial, if the royal courts find the accused guilty, his name will be revealed to all . . .”

  A roar of angry protest bellowed up from the mob below and the chanting began anew drowning out the last of his words. Sir Merriday flinched and backed away from the rain-slicked balcony’s edge. He knew his decision would be unpopular and though he wished he could say he’d done it strictly for Ian’s sake, the truth was, he didn’t want riots in the streets. Angry Yordicians would seek out and punish blameless Gyunwarians. Frightened Gyunwarians would lash out at rampaging Yordicians. The violence would undoubtedly escalate. Innocent people would die. Buildings would burn. Taxes would go uncollected. The crowd was too emotional right now. It would be best for everyone if the crowd broke up and returned home. He tried to voice that suggestion, but no one was listening. They wanted a name.

  But he refused to give it.

  The truth would leak out of the castle soon enough. By sunrise, everyone would know Lord Ian was the accused king-slayer, but by then, all the wardens would be on duty and in position to handle any problems that might arise. Six hours. That’s all he needed to keep the city safe. The king might be dead, but the city would endure. He would make sure of that!

  Letting out a great sigh, he turned and bumped into Prince . . . no, King Edmund.

  “Begging your pardon, your majesty . . .” Sir Merriday stepped back and bowed. “Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy to you and your family.”

  “You did not tell them,” King Edmund said, the question sounding more like an accusatory statement.

  “I thought it wiser to wait. By sunrise the wardens . . .”

  King Edmund pushed passed him and stalked onto the balcony, favoring his wounded hip. The crowd below quieted and bowed their heads.

  “Yordicians! I am your king, King Edmund Rutherford the first of my name, and I believe you deserve the truth. The whole truth!” His deep rumbling voice spread out over the mob like the distant thunder rolling across the heavens. Sir Merriday stepped up beside the king and tried to catch his eye, but King Edmund ignored him. His injured cheek had been hastily stitched and Sir Merriday couldn’t help but wonder why one of the royal healers hadn’t fixed it magically. This way would only leave a scar.

  “My father’s vicious killer was none other than Lord Ian Weatherall, the Gyunwarian Ambassador.”

  A startled gasp erupted from the crowd below and was quickly followed by shouted cries of violence. Sir Merriday watched in dismay as numerous fights broke out, mostly consisting of Yordician majorities beating Gyunwarian minorities.

  The king watched the mayhem spread before he turned away from the balcony’s edge with a contented smile plastered across his broad face.

  “Why did you do that?” Sir Merriday asked sharply, momentarily forgetting he was addressing King Edmund, not Prince Edmund. Realizing he had gone too far, he gestured toward the unruly crowd and quickly added, “This will only cause trouble and strife within the city.”

  King Edmund fixed him with a harsh stare. “If you can’t handle the pressure of being the city administrator, I will find a replacement.” He leaned in close. “And if you use that tone with me ever again, I’ll have your tongue.”

  King Edmund brushed past him and limped toward the stairs. Sir Merriday slunk back, his head bowed. In his younger, brasher days, he might have sent a scathing remark fly after the new king, but he decided to not only hold his tongue, but to also keep it safely locked behind his teeth. Over his long years, he had learned a few things, and one of those was to pick his battles wisely.

  And against a king, he’d lose every time.

  chapter 13

  Lumist stared in shock at the now empty balcony. The new king’s words echoed over and over in his mind, but they just didn’t make any sense. It had to be a terrible mistake. Ian would never have killed the king. It was simply not possible.

  “There’s one of the king-slayer’s friends!” an angry voice shouted. “Bloody Gyun!”

  Lumist glanced around and found a group of ten or so rough-looking Yordician men staring straight at him. The hairs on his neck stood on end. Twenty years ago, no one would have dared to initiate a fight with him. Twenty years ago, he would have drawn a sword and faced the entire group, unafraid, secure in the knowledge he could take them all. Twenty years ago, he would have instilled fear in their hearts with one of his cold, unblinking stares.

  But that was twenty years ago . . . and this was now.

  Now, Lumist pressed his back against the stone wall and dropped into a crouch, ignoring the creaking in his knees. If it were to be fists, he’d make sure to get at least a few of them bloody too before he went down.

&nb
sp; Unfortunately, the old knight heard the familiar screech of blades being drawn. Around the city, he only carried a pair of small daggers tucked inside both his inner sleeves. With a snap of his wrists, the blades dropped comfortably into his hands. The ten Yordicians began to spread out, slowly cutting off his lanes of escape. Lumist watched them closely, his dark eyes noting which were drunk, which were armed and with what, and which would likely strike first.

  Not that he held any illusions of winning this fight. There was a point in a man’s life when he came face-to-face with his limitations and the dreams of his youth were forever dashed by the realities of his age and diminishing abilities. Lumist had reached that point years ago . . .

  Some of the men confronting him now were mere moments away from discovering this truth for themselves.

  But all ten?

  No . . . because this was now, not twenty years ago.

  A man on his right, armed with a sword and a swollen ego rushed forward first. Lumist was not surprised. He had seen something in the young man’s eyes, a glint of over-confidence perhaps, and how his knuckles kept whitening around the hilt of his weapon. He was an eager one, this young swordsman, and itching for a fight.

  Lumist almost hated disappointing him.

  The young man’s first strike missed as Lumist ducked under it, and then the old knight stepped in close and before the younger man could recover, Lumist dragged one dagger across his throat and stuck the other in his upper thigh. Blood gushed from the two torn arteries. Either blow alone was lethal, but he’d wanted to make a bold statement.

  He might be old, but there was still some fight left in him.

  The remaining men hesitated. Long hard looks were thrown his direction. A few quick glances were traded among the remaining nine. Would his bold statement be enough to deter them further?

  A squat pug-nosed Yordician snarled something foul in his native language and leapt forward leading with a jagged knife. His blue eyes widened in confusion and pain as Lumist avoided his straightforward strike and landed one of his own.

  Pug-nose dropped his knife. His fat fingers fumbled and clutched at his stomach. Blood leaked past his thick fingers as he attempted to keep his intestines from spilling out. He failed. Pug-nose soon followed his guts and lay unmoving on the ground at Lumist’s feet. The old knight waited. Maybe if the idiots kept coming at him one at a time he might stand a chance . . . but more than likely, all he’d done was killed the most ignorant of the group and the eight remaining wouldn’t follow the same tactic.

  Maybe?

  But then he saw something he hadn’t expected. Fear. It crept into the eyes of the men nearest him and a few edged back a step. Then another. Initially, they had seen a defenseless, broken down old Gyunwarian, a walking scarecrow in baggy clothing, an easy mark. Two dead idiots later, they saw their own deaths waiting for them.

  He could almost hear their youthful dreams being dashed . . .

  A man in the back pushed past the others and leveled a loaded crossbow at his chest. It was the small, easily concealable kind that had cropped up recently and only shot small darts, but at this range, even the little darts would prove to be lethal.

  “Drop the daggers, old man.”

  Lumist hesitated. In tournaments, this kind of action was not allowed. Knights faced off against each other wielding swords, or maces, or knives, or daggers. He’d even fought against a challenger once who wielded a trident and net, but never had he gone toe-to-toe against an opponent armed with a crossbow.

  “I said, drop the daggers.”

  “In my thirty plus years of being a knight,” Lumist said, gradually turning his body just a bit to one side, “I’ve learned there are two kinds of men.”

  “Drop the daggers!”

  “There are those who talk because they’re afraid to act . . .”

  “I ain’t afraid of you, old man!” the crossbowman shouted.

  Lumist smiled. The man’s wavering tone betrayed him. He made a feint to his left and then dropped to his knees and rolled to his right. The dart whistled harmlessly past his head and lodged in the wall behind him. The Yordician swore as Lumist swung a dagger at his exposed legs . . .

  And missed.

  Twenty years ago, the strike would have severed an artery and he would already be taking out the next man in line.

  Now . . . the pain from landing on his knees nearly took his breath away and he rolled awkwardly past the bowman and into a man wielding a club. There was a moment when the two men stared at each other, but that moment was broken by the bowman shouting, “Get him while he’s down!”

  The man swung. Lumist rolled to one side and took the brunt of the blow across the back of his shoulders instead of the back of his skull. It hurt, but not as bad as it could have. He lashed out with his boots and the man’s right kneecap bent the wrong direction. The man toppled over screaming.

  He wouldn’t be dancing at any costume balls this coming summer.

  Lumist climbed to his feet. The bowman was fumbling to reload his crossbow. The rest didn’t look like they really wanted to be there.

  Neither did he.

  Lumist shoved the closest man into the man behind him and bolted for the nearest alley. Perhaps it wasn’t the most honorable way to leave the field of battle, but Lumist rationalized his actions weren’t so much him running away, but rather a tactical retreat so he could live to fight another day.

  Besides, his knees ached like hell and Ian was in serious trouble. If he were killed now in some meaningless street fight, who would be there to help his friend?

  Lumist ducked into the dark alley and sped for the far end where it joined another alley which led him further away from the chaos in the square. His pace slowed. Finally, he limped over to the rear of some apartment building and lowered himself gingerly onto the back steps. He just needed a moment to catch his breath and to think.

  Where should he go now?

  He pondered that question while he rubbed his bruised knees. Kylpin was busy trying to find his woman and was not expecting him back at the Prancing Piper for hours. He could head home, but his estate lay in the opposite direction and he’d have to circle around the square and then hope no one was waiting for him once he got there.

  “You’re getting too old for this sort of mischief . . .” he muttered to himself.

  “Hey, Bloody Gyun!” a voice shouted off to his left. “We’re not finished with you yet.”

  More than thirty men poured into the alley behind the speaker. Lumist pulled himself to his feet, wincing in pain, and ran the other way. Just because he wasn’t afraid to die, didn’t mean he wanted to. Not now, at least. Not when Ian needed him most.

  He rounded a corner and sprinted ahead, his damp woolen trousers slapping against his legs. He’d much rather be wearing his Gyunwarian leathers and . . .

  The mouth of the alley ahead of him filled with Yordicians. Lumist slid to a stop and glanced over his shoulder. The men trailing him gained the corner and spread out in a wide line.

  He was trapped between the two groups.

  “Tell me old man,” a voice called out. “You said there are two kinds of men. Those who talk because they’re afraid and . . . what? What’s the other kind?”

  Lumist spied the speaker. He was a big-boned, blond Yordician who walked ahead of the thirty, slapping the rounded end of his mace against the palm of his hand.

  “Are they cowards who run away,” Big-Boned asked. “Like you?”

  “No . . .” Lumist flung one of his daggers at the speaker and the blade lodged in the man’s throat. “Guess again.”

  He rushed forward and scooped up the dying man’s mace. “Come on!” he shouted wildly at the rest of them. “Guess again!”

  The Yordician mob didn’t answer; they simply rushed the old knight from both ends of the alley. Lumist ran to the nearest door and smashed it open with his new mace. The rooms beyond were dark, but that didn’t matter. He crashed through them looking for an escape. Somewhere ab
ove, a woman screamed. A baby cried. He reached the other end of the small apartment and tore open the front door. The street beyond was clear.

  Without looking back, Lumist ran east toward the docks. He didn’t know where he was going, but at least the way was downhill. The shouts of the Yordicians behind him grew louder and he wondered which would quit first; his pounding heart, his painful knees . . .

  Or his stubborn pursuers?

  Considering how his night was going so far, he figured the Yordicians would catch him just before his knees buckled and his heart exploded.

  He could almost hear Ian telling him to quit being so pessimistic. Lumist snorted. His old friend would have suggested instead he try to find the silver lining in the situation.

  And almost immediately, he did!

  When the Yordicians caught him, he’d have a fight on his hands, the likes of which he’d never faced before . . .

  And he’d get to enjoy one last opportunity for the blood to take him before he died.

  It was almost enough to make him smile.

  chapter 14

  Gylfalen stood perfectly still inside Ian’s vault and watched the events of the ambassador’s arrest unfold before him. At times, it was all the wind mage could do not to laugh, but he knew if he moved at all, he would be seen . . .

  Or heard.

  The exquisitely detailed black suit of armor in which he was currently hiding had belonged to Sir Lumist Tunney, and while it fit his tall, thin frame well, it hadn’t been oiled recently and even the smallest movement caused the joints to squeak.

  “What are we waiting for?” Lord Ian asked after his wrists had been shackled. Gylfalen was curious about the delay too. The sooner the Gyunwarian Ambassador was removed, the sooner he could escape his armored prison and . . .

  Was that the reason for the delay? Had Captain Straegar noticed him hiding inside the suit and was he merely waiting around to prolong his uncomfortable imprisonment? Gylfalen knew the warden was a pompous ass, but was he a sadistic bastard too?