Sins of a Sovereignty (Amernia Fallen Book 1)

by Plague Jack

  “Spoken like someone who’s never been tortured,” said Shrike. “I’ve had men tortured before; even the innocent confess eventually. I cannot hold out if he comes for me again, Evrill. I just can’t.”

  “You must!” she snapped, emptying her cabinets’ drawers onto her desk. “There must be something here I can give you. Something that will numb the pain and keep you quiet.”

  “Don’t,” said Shrike. “He’ll know and it will be worse. He’ll tear me apart if it’ll get him what he wants. I know his type. If you want to keep me silent you’ll have to kill me, because I’m not ready to die. Not yet. If he tortures me again I’m going to tell him everything he wants to hear.”

  Evrill stared at Shrike, her eyes narrow as she thought. Minutes passed as the two stared in silence. “No. I won’t kill a man who doesn’t want death. It’s not my decision to make.”

  Shrike shook as he lay on the floor, his feet, hands, and torso wrapped in bandages. The cut above his eye was black and red and his left cheek was covered in a yellow and blue bruise. “Find your courage and kill me. Do the right thing even if it’s difficult.” Shrike might have said it had he the strength and had he not very much still wished to live. Instead he closed his eyes and collapsed onto the floor. Shrike’s sleep was haunted with nightmares of bloody spears and grinning elves.

  He awoke naked and tied down to a table, his face pressed against a freshly cut hole. The bandages around his torso had been cut open, revealing his back and spine. The floor spun in front of Shrike’s eyes. Wrists and ankles were shackled with heavy iron. There was a creak of wood as Salus approached. “Mr. O’Connor,” Salus began. “You’ve been very helpful thus far, you really truly have.” Salus ran his fingers through Shrike’s hair. “But I need more, and I know somewhere under all this hair, flesh, and bone lie more secrets. More secrets I need.”

  “I’ve told you everything,” said Shrike groggy. “I don’t know any more.”

  “We’ll see,” said Salus. “I’m going to be sitting this one out; instead, Dr. Hemlin is going to be performing this procedure. I lack the doctor’s touch and I want to keep you as alive as I can. Hemlin, would you please?”

  “Certainly,” said Hemlin. “Dwarfs are interesting,” she began. “Physiologically, that is. Elves, which are commonly believed to be the root of sentient life, have a spine with thirty-five vertebrae. Humans only have thirty-three, while faelings such as myself have twenty-three. The number for gilnoids is an even lower sixteen. Dwarfs, however, despite their size, have thirty-three. The exact same as humans.” She ran a finger down Shrike’s spine. “Have you heard of Azmiran scarab torture?” she asked.

  “I have,” said Shrike, his heart pounding in his ears.

  “Well, this is going to be much worse,” said Hemlin. “Between each of your vertebrae is a disk that allows mobility. We will be exploring those today. Salus, would you hand me my needles?” asked the doctor.

  “Certainly,” said Salus before returning his hands to Shrike’s scalp. “Be careful not to damage him too terribly. I want him intact.”

  “Of course,” said Hemlin. “I am a professional.” Shrike could feel her little hands finding the groove in his spine. The needle didn’t hurt at first as it penetrated skin and muscle. That changed quickly. Pain shot through Shrike’s lower back and traveled in a cobweb of jagged bolts around his side and into his groin.

  He grunted and clenched his teeth. No, I can’t talk, I can’t, Shrike told himself. Then the second needle went in, this one two vertebrae up. Agony tore into his stomach and back like a hungry wolf. Shrike gasped in pain.

  “We need to know everything you know,” said Salus. “I need it all. Hemlin, stick in another.”

  Shrike vomited as the third needle went in. To his joy it got on Salus’s shoes. “I know nothing!” he said. “My head’s as empty as they come. Empty as can be. I’m brainless!”

  “Another,” ordered Salus. The needle triggered a spasm in Shrike but the chains held him tight. Shrike screamed, a long agonized wail of pain. “Ready to talk?”

  “Fuck off,” Shrike growled.

  “Twist the needles, Hemlin,” said Salus, and Hemlin did.

  “Fuck you all!” shouted Shrike. “When I get out of here I’m going to kill you both.”

  “Another needle, Hemlin!” said Salus, and the doctor stuck in yet another sliver of metal. Shrike screamed. “Another! Now another! We can make the pain go away, Mr. O’Connor. All you have to do is tell us everything. I have sweet relief here in a syringe. All you need to do is say the word.”

  I can’t hold out, thought Shrike. I can’t take it any longer. “Armory!” he shouted. “Basement!”

  “Give him the shot!” ordered Salus, as a cool serene numbness washed over Shrike’s body and the needles were plucked from his back one by one. “That’s better, isn’t it, Mr. O’Connor? Hemlin, go get me Evrill,” he ordered. “We’re going to find this armory.”

  They gathered in the sanctuary’s basement. Evrill and Shrike stood under heavy guard while Salus stood before them. He reached under the wheel that powered the sanctuary’s elevator and pulled a lever, causing the floor to rumble as the wheel rolled to one side, revealing a barn-sized room with walls of stone. Lining the walls were rows and rows of dog-sized boxes. “Mordigan, fetch me one of those crates,” Salus ordered as the gilnoid dragged back a wooden box covered in dust.

  Don’t open it, thought Shrike, his body completely numb from the painkillers. Leave it be.

  Salus’s eyes lit up when he saw what was inside. “Evrill, my dear. What is this?” The Duchess was silent and stared at the ground. “Fine. I’ll figure it out myself,” he said, pulling the object from its box. It was made from a dark wood and finely lacquered, roughly the size of a broomstick, with a metal barrel ending in a blade. “It’s a weapon,” said Salus as he twirled a six-holed cylinder. He pulled the trigger and its hammer snapped. “But it’s not loaded.” He continued to root around in the box. “Here we are,” he said, smiling as he loaded the brass-cased bullets into the cylinder. “What do you call it?” he asked.

  “It’s called a firearm,” said Evrill. “I engineered them around the same time I did Nixus. Only a handful of others ever knew.”

  “Someone knew,” said Salus, laughing with a smile at Shrike. “Someone always knows… how many are there?” he asked.

  “A few hundred.”

  Salus squeezed the trigger and the firearm went off with a bang and a puff of smoke. “Shit!” he yelped before letting out a long laugh. “A few hundred of these will make me a king. Lead Evrill and Mr. O’Connor up to the first floor if you would,” said Salus. “Duchess, you and I have a date with Harpy’s Point.”

  The city guard waited outside the sanctuary with half the city. They gathered in a mob, the rich in their fine glowworm silk and the poor in their wool rags. The monks wore their blue hoods and prayed to Cambrian humbly as they were pushed aside by the guards, all of whom trained their crossbows on the sanctuary door. For every human in the crowd there were two elfkin.

  “Don’t shoot,” shouted Salus, opening the sanctuary doors and stepping proudly out onto the bridge. “Don’t shoot until you hear me out!” he pleaded, forcing Evrill and Shrike to their knees. “I know that taking over the hospital and kidnapping the Duchess was no way for a guest to behave, but I have only acted with the interests of the free peoples in mind.”

  “You’re a murderer!” a hairy dwarf woman shouted. “Shoot him dead!”

  “No,” said a guard raising a hand. “We will hear him out first. Say your piece, elf, but know your life depends on it.”

  Salus gave a courteous bow that made his armor crunch together. “Dear people of Harpy’s Point! I am very sorry to inform you that you have all been deceived.”

  “How?” asked a plump man in red, “who has deceived us?”

  “Veronica Evrill—the very same duchess who took most of you in after the Green War—who nursed your wounds when you were sick a
nd let you dodge taxes when you fell on hard times—has confessed to war crimes.”

  “War crimes?” replied the lead guard. “What evil would Evrill commit? Who is the Wild Hunt to accuse anyone of war crimes? You sound like a hypocrite to me.”

  “Would everyone here who lost a lover, a son, a home, or a loved one during the Green War raise your fists?” he said, raising his high. The crowd followed hesitantly, and more had their fists raised than did not. “Tragically many. Most of whom would still be alive if not for Evrill, here. The people of Harpy’s Point have become complacent since Darius rebelled. A complacency fed by this woman. You think she has your best interests in mind? No! This witch openly supports the Blood Queen! The very same monster who fogged your home and tore apart your Great Machine. Evrill has fed you with false compassion and lies; she has stuffed you all with sugar and cake to distract you from the truth! Worst of all, you people have gobbled it up like fat little pigs, blind to how lazy and ignorant your oppressor has made you! That is why the Wild Hunt is here! We have arisen from the bowels of Amernia to punish the wicked and bring justice to this land. My name is Salus and I accuse Evrill of creating Nixus and poisoning the north!”

  A gasp went up from the crowd, followed by screams of anger. “You’re a filthy liar,” shouted an orphan boy. “Kill him, he spreads his lies. No man can create fog! It was a weapon stolen from the gods—everyone knows that!”

  “The gods know better than to inflict such horrors upon the land!” said Salus, hoisting Evrill off the ground and pointing at her with his claymore. “See for yourself!”

  No, thought Shrike. This is where you lie, Duchess. This is where you deny any involvement and Salus gets an arrow through the neck. Lie, damn you.

  Of course, she didn’t lie. Instead she stood up straight and proud. “It is true,” said Evrill. Upon hearing her words the people recoiled and scoffed with shock.

  “He’s making her lie,” someone shouted. “He’s cast a spell on her.”

  “No,” said Evrill. “He has not. It was years ago I made Nixus gas. We made it here, from the corpses of dragons, in what is now my sanctuary. I have always been a friend of the elfkin,” she continued. “I did not turn this place into a home for you because I sought to apologize. I tried to turn Harpy’s Point into a home for everyone. I am sorry for what I did,” she said. “But I cannot change the past.”

  The crowd seemed ready to tear itself apart as it exploded from within. Cries for and against the Duchess raged throughout and the guards did everything they could to stop the madness. “Order!” shouted the lead guardsman. “All of you behave!”

  “Kill her!” someone shouted. “Burn the witch!” more voices chimed in. “Burn her.”

  “No!” said the lead guard. “This will not be another Norfield!”

  “Of course it won’t,” interrupted Salus, quieting the crowd. “The Wild Hunt’s here to maintain order. It would be wrong of me to dispense justice when no crime has been committed against me. Instead I think it would be fair if every citizen cast a vote. Let every free person who wishes Evrill dead place a dark stone to the right of this bridge. Those who want the Duchess to continue leading should place a white stone. We’ll let the people decide. Guards, I trust you’ll oversee the voting and make sure no one votes twice?”

  The guard shook his head. “I don’t see any other choice,” he said. “Or this city will tear itself apart.”

  Word spread through Harpy’s Point like syphilis through a whorehouse. From the market, the dark corners, the quarry, and the mines, they came one by one and placed a stone at the foot of the bridge while the Harpy’s Point guards kept tally.

  Hours passed as they waited. “Evrill,” said Shrike as the stone piles turned into stone mountains. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes met his. “I forgive you Harper,” she said. “I forgive you.”

  “What’s the count?” Salus asked the guards. “How many yay and how many nay?”

  “Twenty-five hundred and sixty-six yay,” said the guard. “Twenty-two hundred and forty nay…” His voice trailed off. “Let us recount?” he requested with a harsh glare. “We could have gotten it wrong. Or made a mistake somewhere.”

  Salus patted him on the back. “I’m sorry, good sir, but the people have spoken. The votes have come in,” he said, addressing the crowd. “Evrill has been sentenced to die by the people of Harpy’s Point.”

  Some cried upon hearing the news. Some cheered. In the end there was no fighting it. No injustice to howl against. Democracy had spoken. Evrill was pulled before the crowd and forced to kneel in the dirt and mud. Tears were streaming down her face. “Any last words?” asked Salus as he held his claymore above her neck.

  “I did everything I could to be the best. For all of you,” she said, gazing at the faces of her people.

  “Not enough!” said Salus as he swung his broadsword down over his head in a wide arch.

  “Stop!” a familiar voice shouted, and Salus changed direction midstroke, missing Evrill and embedding his sword into the dirt.

  “Who said that?” Salus shouted, angry. “Come forward.”

  Shrike had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. The crowd parted for the towering figure of Sir Clark Pendragon, his sword drawn and shield in hand. His green eyes peered out from under his dragon helmet and his black cloak, still wet from snow, flowed behind him. He got my letter, thought Shrike, sharing a giddy, drugged smile with himself.

  “The Elf Butcher himself has come to the Duchess’s aid?” sneered Salus. “How appropriate. You’re too late, Dragon Knight. The people have already sentenced Evrill to death.”

  “I brought a present,” said Pendragon, reaching into his cloak. “You had rangers watching the roads. I thought you might like to see them again,” he said, pulling forth a long chain strung with the bloodied heads of elves and dwarfs. He threw them underhand and they landed in a bundle at Salus’s feet. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said, shooting a smile at Shrike, who beamed back despite bruises and trauma.

  “Took your sweet time,” laughed Shrike, thrilled. I’m going to live!

  “I’ll make you a deal, Salus,” said Pendragon. “A duel to the death, for the lives of Evrill and whatever is left of Shrike.”

  “A duel?” repeated Salus, his eyes shifting as he debated whether to risk battle with Amernia’s finest.

  “Fight him!” shouted a one-armed gilnoid. “Butcher the Elf Butcher.” The crowd followed suit. “Fight him!” they cheered. Half were exhilarated at the thought of their duchess getting another chance to live, while half salivated at the thought of getting to see Pendragon sliced to ribbons.

  Salus looked down at his sword, then at Pendragon, then back at his sword. “Very well,” he said, to Shrike’s surprise. “I will duel you, Pendragon, for the lives of Evrill and Mr. O’Connor. But not here.”

  “Why not?” said Pendragon. “This is as good a spot as any.”

  “Hardly. Duels should be fought under sky, not rock. We’ll fight on Teryn’s Landing.”

  And so Shrike and Evrill were paraded through the city, splashing through streams and puddles as they went. The city criers ran ahead as half of Harpy’s Point followed. “Hear ye!” they shouted. “The Dragon Knight has challenged the Arrow Lord to a duel for the life of Veronica Evrill.”

  Arrow Lord, thought Shrike. So that’s what they’re calling Salus now.

  They poured from the gate under the mountain and spilled out onto the snow-covered landing slick with ice. The civilians were bundled in furs to keep warm and they formed a semicircle under the stone harpy’s gaze. Guards in purple held the mob back, and the Wild Hunt gathered to the front of the mob. “The Dragon Knight’s gonna get it,” said Mordigan, holding Shrike by the shoulder. “Salus will break his old bones and throw him down the cliff.”

  I’m not convinced he won’t, thought Shrike as it began to snow from a gray night sky. Evrill was placed beside him as Salus passed, having all but forgotten about
his hostages. He strutted forward with a boastful arrogance, his chest thrust out and his claymore held in one hand by a gauntleted fist. The green arrows painted on his armor seemed to glow as the snow chilled the big elf’s breath.

  Opposite him stood Pendragon, taller and bigger but also older. Pendragon let his black cloak get carried away by the wind. “Why are you doing this?” asked Salus. “You could have been one of my best soldiers.”

  “I was never your soldier,” said Pendragon, growling. “I’m my own knight.”

  “Oh, really?” said Salus. “No one told the Blood Queen. Tell me, did Quintero accept my offer?”

  “He said he’d rather burn Amernia to the ground than work with the Wild Hunt.”

  Salus raised an eyebrow. “Did he? That doesn’t sound like him. But no matter, I’ll ask him myself in a few weeks. I had hoped you would be preoccupied with your fool’s errand while I exacted justice.”

  “Justice? You call this justice?” he asked, pointing Christopher at Evrill and Shrike. “I call it atrocity.”

  “Atrocity?” mused Salus. “Who is the Elf Butcher to morally lecture anyone?”

  “Who better to understand it?” said Pendragon through his helm. “You’re just a young usurping brat using a righteous cause to serve your thirst for power. You’re another Darius wearing an elf’s skin.”

  “You didn’t seem to have a problem supporting the Hunt,” Salus pointed out. “If I remember correctly you came to us willingly.”

  “It’s not them I have a problem with,” said Pendragon. “It’s you.” He slapped his sword against the shield Kaevin had forged for him, and it made a sharp clang that rang throughout the mountainside.

  Salus put on his helmet and fastened it to his neckpiece. “So be it, Dragon Knight.”

  “He’ll win, I’m sure of it,” Shrike lied to Evrill as they knelt in the snow together, their bonds digging into their skin.