Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

  “Or,” Lord Ian continued, “Should I ask, ‘who are we waiting for?’”

  “I said I don’t want to hear another word out of you,” Straegar growled. His chest puffed out, straining the buttons down the front of his uniform. Gylfalen swallowed back his laughter. Was it vanity that made the captain have his shirts tailored so snugly? He probably thought all the ladies swooned when they saw his bulging pectoral muscles. His gaze lowered. Straegar’s uniform trousers however were not quite so tight. Ah, Gylfalen swallowed back more laughter, perhaps now it all made sense.

  “Speak again,” Straegar added, “and I’ll cut your tongue out of your mouth.”

  “Captain Straegar, put your sword away.”

  Gylfalen almost turned his head at the sound of his current employer’s voice. Through his helmet’s lowered visor, he watched as Lord Ragget strolled into the view. His long blond hair was swept back from his face and hastily tied into a tail with a bit of ribbon. His pale blue silk shirt was wrinkled and . . . the wind mage sniffed and caught a whiff of . . . something musky and . . .

  Gylfalen smiled and inhaled deeply. The delicate currents of air carried with it the ripe scent of sex. Lord Ragget had come here directly from his bedroom after mating with Cecily.

  Lord Ian stiffened at Lord Ragget’s approach. Gylfalen’s dark eyes narrowed as he studied the ambassador closely. Could he smell his wife’s womanly aroma on Lord Ragget too?

  He bit his lip to keep from laughing. Probably not. The Gyunwarian lord was too naïve, too trusting, too innocent to think another capable of such behavior. Besides, considering how infrequently the Gyunwarian and the princess mated, he probably was unfamiliar with her scent.

  No, Gylfalen thought, at this point, Lord Ian was most likely just wondering why all these bad things kept happening to him.

  “What is he doing here?” Lord Ian asked, nodding toward Lord Ragget.

  “I am here to report a burglary, but I see Captain Straegar has caught you already.” He walked past Lord Ian and stepped into the vault. He pointed. “These chests are mine!”

  Gylfalen had made sure to place Lord Ragget’s belongings near the front of the vault, just as he had been instructed.

  “I wish this thief to be taken to my dungeon . . .” Lord Ragget continued. “I will have my questioner . . .”

  “He stole from me as well, Ragget,” Lord Glavinas Roth grumbled, his words slurring. Gylfalen couldn’t wait for the fat drunk to leave. The air around him reeked of alcohol and sweat and . . . and . . . Gylfalen couldn’t quite discern what else. Something wild and pungent and unpleasant. “I think perhaps he should . . .”

  “Lord Ian Weatherall will be held in the royal dungeons on charges of killing the king,” Captain Straegar declared, overruling both lords and sounding oh so very pompous.

  Gylfalen had to close his dark eyes when he saw the expressions on their faces. Lord Ragget’s feigned shock and Lord Glavinas’s drunken glassy-eyed stare were just too much for him. He stifled a snicker. The armor twitched and groaned. Gylfalen’s eyes snapped open. No one seemed to notice.

  “Men take him away,” Captain Straegar ordered.

  The royal wardens grabbed Ian’s shackles and dragged him toward the vault door. He struggled against them briefly, but one of the wardens slugged him square in the face and knocked him out cold.

  Two of the larger wardens picked him up and carried him away. With a shake of his head, Lord Glavinas Roth stumbled after them, leaving Captain Straegar, Lord Ragget and his quiet bodyguard Amarias behind.

  “Where is that gods-damned wind mage?” Straegar snarled. “Without those communication discs, my men are relying on him to pass messages and now is not the time for him to start refusing my summons! What’s the matter with him?”

  Ragget walked over to the suit of armor and raised the visor. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  No longer needing to hide, Gylfalen pulled the great helm up over his head and dropped it at his feet. Cool air greeted him, and he inhaled deeply.

  “Well?” Straegar demanded.

  “I did not ignore or refuse your summons,” Gylfalen said. “I simply did not get them. I was busy. Here. Inside the vault.”

  “Locked inside it would appear,” Ragget said.

  Gylfalen shrugged, unwilling to admit his failure.

  Ragget crossed his arms over his chest. “And how exactly did that happen?”

  The wind mage pursed his lips. The other three men were all staring at him, waiting. Finally, with a roll of his eyes, Gylfalen said, “That insane fire mage escaped and shut me in.”

  “Garett Navarro is loose?” Straegar exploded. He rounded on Lord Ragget. “I told you not to use that little bastard unless you planned to kill him.”

  “I did, and I thought we had,” Ragget said, eyeing the wind mage sharply.

  “The poison dart should have killed him,” Gylfalen said.

  “Should have?” Ragget repeated. He walked away from the other men and began poking around the vault. “I thought you said it would?”

  “I did. The poison must have . . .” Gylfalen trailed off. He could tell Ragget was in no mood for excuses. “Don’t worry, I’ll find him again,” he promised.

  Straegar snorted.

  Ragget switched his hard gaze over onto the captain. “I wouldn’t judge him too quickly. You and your men still haven’t captured Josephine Hewes.”

  Straegar’s face darkened. “The storm and the lack of communications have hampered our search.” He shot Gylfalen a withering stare.

  “At least I didn’t allow Joseph Hewes to die!” Gylfalen said.

  “Neither did I!” Straegar’s voice rose. “Nathan Lipscombe and his fat little fiend, Furland Pervis are responsible for that fiasco!”

  “You’re full of excuses tonight, aren’t you?” Ragget said.

  Before Straegar could find his tongue, Gylfalen spoke up. “When I find the fire mage again, I’ll make sure he’s dead.”

  “See that you do,” Ragget replied. He turned his back on them both and stared at the great reptilian skull mounted on the back wall. The damn thing still unnerved Gylfalen.

  “And Captain Straegar?”

  “Sir?”

  “I don’t want excuses anymore. I want results.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gylfalen smiled over at Straegar. He wasn’t above kicking a man while he was down. “I’ll have the fire mage before you find Josephine.”

  Straegar scowled. “Only because my men have to rely on your . . . talents . . . to communicate.”

  “My talents are at your disposal,” Gylfalen said. “But even so, I’ll still find my man first.”

  “Care to make it interesting?”

  Gylfalen chuckled to himself. He had maneuvered the captain right where he’d wanted him. “Sure. When I win, I want your title and your estate.”

  Straegar swallowed hard and tugged at his uniform collar. “And . . . and if I win?”

  “You can have my airship.”

  “What airship?”

  “It’s anchored above Lord Ragget’s estate.”

  “I haven’t seen it.” Straegar glanced over at Ragget. “Have you?”

  “Briefly,” Ragget said. “It’s tethered to the top of my Central Tower.”

  “I’ll make it visible to you after the wager is settled,” Gylfalen said. His smile showed off his pointy teeth. “You’ll be able to see it docked above my new estate.”

  “Oh, it will be docked above my estate, that is certain,” Straegar said.

  “Enough!” Ragget stepped between the two. “The airship will stay docked above my estate for now and if you both don’t do as you’re told, I’ll have Amarias bury you in my garden. Perhaps as fertilizer you’ll actually be of more use to me.”

  Gylfalen’s smile faded. Straegar bowed his head.

  “We’re almost there, gentlemen.” Ragget’s tone softened. “Soon this city will be cleansed of the Gyunwarian filth, and Belyne will be all
ours again. All ours.” He took turns looking each of them in the eye. “But we must keep our wits about us and quit fighting amongst ourselves. Do I make myself clear?” They nodded. “Keep your wager if you like, but I expect results.” They nodded again. “Good.” He snapped his fingers. “Amarias, come, we’re returning home.” He flashed a grin in Gylfalen’s direction. “I want to be there when Cecily awakes. The window of opportunity is small . . . but it has been shall we say wide open since her return.”

  The giant stepped out of the shadows beside the vault door and fell in beside his lord as they left the room.

  Straegar glanced over at Gylfalen. “What did he mean by that?”

  Gylfalen shrugged. He knew of course, but he wasn’t going to tell Straegar. It was something Ragget had been planning for months and one of the reasons why Gylfalen had been spying on both Ian and Cecily. Lord Ragget had wanted to know Cecily’s monthly cycle.

  Obviously, his garden wasn’t the only thing he wanted fertilized this spring.

  Straegar rolled his eyes. “Very well, keep your damn secrets, I don’t care.” He headed for the vault door. “But let’s get out of here. We have a wager to settle.”

  Gylfalen tried to follow but the suit of armor’s metal joints wouldn’t allow it. He managed a couple of tiny, squeaky steps but no more. Straegar glanced back at him and chuckled.

  “Are you just going to stand there and giggle, or are you going to help me out of this contraption?” the wind mage asked.

  “Neither,” Straegar said. He turned and walked away. “I’ve got an airship to win.”

  chapter 15

  “Gods above, what are they doing to those people down there?” Edgar whispered.

  Tears dampened Josephine’s cheeks. She had no answer for him. Even after watching the gruesome and grisly work being done below for . . . for . . . she had no idea how long now . . . she still couldn’t comprehend the reasoning behind what she was seeing; except allowing for pure evilness. No other explanation made sense. Even torture had a purpose, but this was . . . this was . . .

  All kinds of wrong.

  No, wrong didn’t go far enough. What Lipscombe had done to her was wrong. What Lord Ragget was doing to Lord Ian was wrong. Saying the horror below was ‘wrong’ was so far wrong she might as well say it was ‘right’.

  Josephine bowed her head and closed her eyes, but the scenes of madness remained in the dark corners of her mind. She cursed her curiosity. It had led her astray before, but never so far as this time. She wished she could somehow go back in time and un-see what she had seen. Of course, if the world were handing out such wishes, she might as well wish she could go back to before her father was captured and make sure he was never taken. Or perhaps go even further back and . . . she stopped herself. Wishing away her problems wasn’t going to do her any good. It only wasted precious time. What was done was done; she had to keep moving forward and leave the past in the past.

  Something touched her shoulder and she jumped. It was only Edgar.

  “We should go . . .” he tilted his head to one side.

  He was right. Eventually someone would miss the two collectors and the wagon full of bodies. And right then, she recalled Gruff’s words to the workman below. Twelve. Half dead, half drugged.

  “We can’t leave without the wagon.”

  Edgar’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?”

  “Some of the people in there are still alive,” Josephine said. “I won’t condemn them to . . . to . . .” She gestured behind her. “This!”

  “There ain’t no way we can sneak out of here with it, Jo!”

  Josephine moved to the back of the wagon and lifted the tarp hoping perhaps some of the drugged would be stirring. No such luck. They all looked dead to her.

  “Jo, you’ve got to be reasonable here.” Edgar came up beside her. “It’ll be hard enough for the two of us to get out of here unnoticed. We can’t go adding . . .”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

  Edgar raised his hands shoulder high, palms outward. “I’m just being realistic here.”

  “There’s got to be a way out up ahead,” Josephine said. She peered around the side of the wagon but could see nothing much in the darkness beyond the horses.

  “How do you know?”

  “The catwalk is too narrow to turn the wagon around. They must drive in, unload, and drive out again.”

  “All right . . .” Edgar’s gaze rose to the ceiling in thought. “All right . . . but the problem is, you’re forgetting the ‘unload’ part. Someone down there is expecting a delivery of bodies.”

  “It doesn’t seem right giving them the dead either considering . . .” Josephine glanced over the railing again. One of the apron-clad workers below was carrying a severed leg toward the . . . the . . . segmented thing . . . on the table with eleven legs already. In another corner, a man was nearly finished skinning a woman hanging from a meat hook. Off to the left came the grating sound of a metal saw cutting through bone, but over to the right . . . she frowned . . . over to the right . . .

  Josephine pulled her gaze away and swallowed the bile in the back of her throat. She had no idea what they were doing to the copper-skinned men and women in the cages over there but the way some of them were screaming . . . and pawing at their throats . . . and convulsing . . . and then she saw one of the workers take a gem from a small box on the table with the familiar black dragon design on the side and together with another worker, they pinned a copper-skinned woman down and forced her to swallow the stone. Moments later, she too was screaming and grabbing for her throat.

  “We ain’t getting out of here without first giving them something,” Edgar said.

  “Gruff and Squeaky.”

  “Who?”

  Josephine waved a dismissive hand in the air. “The two collectors.”

  “What if they’re recognized?”

  “You’re not being helpful.”

  “It ain’t my idea, Jo.”

  “You want to give them Owen instead?”

  As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t.

  Edgar’s jaw clenched. “We’ll start with Gruff and Squeaky.”

  Josephine stooped to pick up the first, but Edgar got only part way down before he straightened with a grimace. He grabbed his injured side and shook his head. “I can’t . . .” he wheezed.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll manage on my-”

  “Hey!” the voice from below bellowed, cutting her off. “Quit fuckin’ the corpses up there and send them down already! We’ve got a deadline to meet!”

  Josephine studied the dead man at her feet. Had he really done . . . that . . . with the corpses? The guilt she had felt for shooting him lessened considerably.

  “You hear me up there?” the workman shouted. “We ain’t got all night!”

  Josephine glanced over at Edgar, her eyebrows arching.

  “Then shut the fuck up and let us finish,” Edgar shouted in a decent imitation of Gruff’s gruff voice.

  The clanking machine in the center of the warehouse rumbled to life again drowning out the workman’s coarse reply. Josephine had seen what the dirty monstrosity was designed to do and what its finished product was, and she trembled at the thought of anyone . . . of . . . her mother or Leigh being . . . fed . . . into it. Her imagination began to take over and . . . and . . . the thought of them emerging with protruding spikes and metal plates and . . . and . . . white glowing eyes . . .

  “Jo!” Edgar’s sharpness drew her back to the present. He was standing at the rear of the wagon, but he was pointing to something over her shoulder. “Put the collectors on those hooks while I figure out which ones back here are dead. I should be able to manage that.”

  She nodded. Sweat broke out across her forehead as she grabbed the first man by his armpits and hoisted him up. He was heavy, but she was strong, and she pinned him against the railing with one hand and her hip while she reached for the nearest hook. There was no delicate way to do what was r
equired of her next, so she gritted her teeth and drove the point firmly into the dead man’s back. The rest was rather easy. She gave the body a push and he toppled over the side. Momentum and a narrow curving rail carried the hooked body down to the far-left side of the warehouse floor where other bodies waited for the workmen’s brutal attention.

  Josephine gathered up the second collector and was gladdened to find he was lighter than his companion. She dragged him over to the railing, wrenched him upright and reached for another hook.

  “Jo . . .?”

  Something about Edgar’s tone told her something was wrong, and it took her only a moment to figure out what it was. And when she did, her shoulders sagged, and she muttered a curse under her breath.

  Edgar had seen the crossbow bolt buried in Owen’s chest.

  If she had been thinking straight, she would have refused Edgar’s offer to help; she would have told him to stay away from the bodies in the wagon. She would have told him he looked a mess and his face was dangerously pale. She would have told him to sit on the bench and rest. He wouldn’t have argued too much. But now, he knew she had lied to him. He knew she had killed Owen. The only thing he didn’t know was why.

  And now, it was probably too late to explain.

  She turned to face him, hoping against hope that maybe she was wrong, hoping that maybe she’d be able to blurt out the truth and that he’d listen to her, and hear how sorry she was that she had misled him. She’d tell him Owen had tried to kill her and she had only acted out of self-defense. She’d tell him if she could go back and . . .

  The collector’s body slipped out of her grasp and toppled over the railing.

  chapter 16

  Ian floated in and out of consciousness during the uncomfortable ride to the dungeons. When he was awake, he lay on his side in the middle of the caged wagon and cradled his injured arm and tried to gather his scattered thoughts.

  He would have had better luck catching dragonflies, blind-folded with his bare hands.

  He was vaguely aware of the wagon stopping and the rear door screeching open.