“I am Claradon.”
“Claradon is the Lord of Dor Eotrus,” said Ob. “And you will address him as such, Myrdonian.”
“He’s the lord of nothing,” said the knight, somehow rediscovering his courage, “unless the Council says he is, which is why I’m here. I bear a writ from the High Council. You are commanded to travel posthaste to Lomion City to meet with the Council on the matter of the succession. I’m to escort you.”
“Word travels fast hereabouts,” said Dolan.
Ob took the writ from the Myrdonian’s hand and read it. “Barusa’s seal,” said Ob, holding it up so that Claradon could see it. He turned back to the Myrdonian. “Lucky for you, we’re heading just that way. Eat our dust.” The group galloped past the emissaries and on toward Lomion City.
II
INQUISITION
“My father is dead,” said Claradon as he stood before the High Council in ancient Tammanian Hall. “More than eighty of House Eotrus’s finest knights and soldiers are dead; all lost defending our lands. It was you, Chancellor Barusa, that penned the writ inviting me to these chambers to receive formal appointment as Lord of Dor Eotrus, and now, despite my written account and having heard the tale twice from my lips, you still question me. What are you about, Chancellor?”
“What am I about?” bellowed the Chancellor—a tall, fit man of gray hair, pasty face, and middling years—from his perch high above the audience hall on the councilors’ mezzanine. “How dare you question me, you young pup. You are most certainly not here to be handed a Stewardship; you are here to answer this Council’s questions, and answer them all you will.”
An ornate wooden door on the mezzanine slowly opened with a loud creaking noise, though the sound came not from the door, but from the throat of he who opened it. Prince Cartagian, King Tenzivel’s son and heir, entered the chamber, richly garbed but unkempt and wild-eyed. The Council’s guards rolled their eyes and snickered at the prince's appearance, while the councilors attempted to ignore him. When the prince was certain that he had everyone’s attention, he tiptoed across the mezzanine in melodramatic fashion and took the center seat, the place of the king.
To Cartagian’s left sat the Vizier, a hawk-faced man of long white beard and evil visage—his face so thin that his pale, mottled skin covered little more than bone.
To his left sat Councilor Slyman, Master of Guilds and gluttony, his belly reaching for his knees. Past him was Lord Jhensezil, Preceptor of the Odion Knights and wealthy landowner. Farther on was Field Marshal Balfor, commander of the Lomerian army. An array of medals lined the prominent arc of the marshal’s midsection, which was partly hidden behind a broad black beard streaked with gray. Beyond Balfor were empty seats—odd for a formal council meeting.
To Cartagian’s right was Barusa of Alder, followed by Bishop Tobin of the Churchmen, long now stooped and in his dotage, and Lord Harringgold, Archduke of Lomion City—highest official in the kingdom save for the King and the Chancellor. Beyond Harringgold were the Lady Dahlia of Kern, renowned diplomat and scholar, and the Lady Aramere of Dyvers, her hair dyed blue and piled high, as was her city's fashion. Several personal attendants and armed bodyguards shadowed each councilor.
Myrdonian Knights guarded each entrance to the chamber and the two grand, sweeping marble staircases that connected the audience hall to the mezzanine. The hall’s perimeter burst with all manner of perfumed courtiers, ladies in waiting, dandies, toadies, and lackeys, chattering softly but hanging on each word that the councilors spoke. At the center of the audience hall was the petitioner’s dais: a movable round platform that was two steps up from the audience hall's floor. The petitioners were separated from the courtiers only by the circular railing that hugged the dais’s perimeter, and by a cordon of Myrdonian Knights that surrounded it. Claradon stood tall at the dais’s wooden lectern. Ob and Tanch flanked him.
Barusa made no pause at Cartagian’s entry and continued his tirade, his voice booming and resonating off the majestic, domed ceiling, gilt in silver and bronze, and magnificently coffered with rare hardwoods. “You are the one that presented this esteemed Council with an implausible and incoherent account of the death of your father and liege. You stand here churning a fairy tale about mountain trolls. Preposterous!”
“Why are we surrounded by armed guards, Chancellor?” said Claradon. “Are we your prisoners, sir? Perhaps you will throw us in irons next?”
“Not yet, but we will see,” said Barusa with a sneer. “I will have the truth from you, Eotrus, one way or another. Tell me what really happened out there? Come clean with the truth now, or I vow, you will regret it.”
“I had a troll once,” said Prince Cartagian as he perked up in his seat. “I scooped out his eyes with a soup spoon and swallowed them whole. I fed the rest of him to my cat—not all at once, of course. He bled green blood, you know, and squealed like a pig; most delightful—the troll, not the cat.” The prince slumped back down in his seat, closed his eyes, and went quiet.
“I have told you all there is to tell,” said Claradon as he gazed in disbelief at Cartagian. “And where is King Tenzivel? Does he no longer preside over this Council?”
“Alas, the king is ill,” said Barusa. “Until he recovers, Prince Cartagian represents the Crown on this Council.”
“The cat just died, but I didn’t throttle him,” said Cartagian, awakening. “He did it to himself; he had it coming, you know.” The prince closed his eyes again as drool slid down his chin.
“And how can he do that when he’s not of clear mind?” said Claradon. “And what of Baron Morfin, Lord Glenfinnen, and the other Council members? Tradition dictates that all councilors be present at a stewardship assembly. Are they ill as well? What goes on here? What has become of this Council?”
“Do not presume to lecture us, young Eotrus,” said Councilor Slyman, dressed in festival finery stained with his last meal. “The workings of the High Council of Lomion are none of your affair and we will not debate them with you no matter—.”
“If you must know,” said the Vizier in a slow and droning voice that somehow commanded the room, “Morfin is dead by his own hand.” He paused to study Claradon’s reaction before he continued. “A troubled soul was he, Morfin. Unable to cope with the stresses of his duties and responsibilities. An unfortunate weakness of character. Yet we who knew him these many years honor his service and miss his council. But we must carry on with the affairs of the realm, you understand. The other Council members are merely away on state business or other pressing personal matters; nothing of any concern to you. I trust you find this explanation, satisfactory, young Eotrus?”
Claradon nodded for politeness’s sake, if not in agreement.
“Good,” said the Vizier. “Unfortunately, I do not find your explanation at all satisfactory. No trolls have been reported in Lomion for three generations—”
“More likely than not,” said Slyman, “even back then, they were only figments to scare the misbehaving whelps.”
“Indeed,” said the Vizier. “And yet here you stand before us, spinning a tale of troll attacks; a veritable invasion that has scores of our citizens dead in open battle. Troubling, I find this story, young man, most troubling, and most unlikely.”
“If I might interject a few thoughts,” said Lord Harringgold, a tall man of regal bearing and piercing eyes. “Good Councilors, we know all too well that each of our duties and responsibilities have grown more burdensome since the onset of the king’s illness, leaving us little time to matters outside the norm such as this. No doubt, most of us have had little opportunity to fully digest and reflect upon the written account provided by Brother Claradon. I, however, was fortunate to have a break in my schedule that permitted me to study the report in some detail, and I must say, that having done so, however surprising the news of trolls abroad in our lands, I find the account of Brother Claradon quite thorough and complete. I would add that his account has been duly corroborated by the men of good name that stand with
him.”
“Ha,” belched Barusa, triumph in his eyes. “A gnome, a befuddled hedge wizard, and a foreigner too barbaric and cowardly to even doff his weapons and enter these sacred chambers. Bah! Men of good name, indeed.”
“I will put it straight to you, Eotrus,” said the Chancellor. “I think you and your compatriots conspired to murder your father, either by your own hands or through some proxy—perhaps that foreign mercenary of yours—to take the Eotrus lands for your own, before your time. And unless you can prove otherwise, I intend to see that you—all of you—pay for these crimes.”
“You are out of line, Barusa,” said Ob, shaking his fist. “Way out.”
“Your Excellency—Lord Eotrus’s death—it happened just as Master Claradon described,” said Tanch, panting. “Mountain trolls they were. Many, many trolls. The beasts set a coordinated attack on Eotrus lands. We fought them as best we could. Only the heroism of—”
“So where are the carcasses?” said Barusa. “Show us these dead trolls that we might know the truth of this tale.”
“We burned them,” said Ob sharply. “Only way to keep them things down for good. Nothing left but ash.”
“Preposterous,” said Barusa.
“And most convenient,” said Slyman.
Lord Jhensezil, tall, broad, and muscular, but graying, leaned forward in his chair. “Hunters have reported troll spoor deep in the mountains, north of Eotrus lands, in recent years.”
“Superstitious country folk,” said Barusa. “Their accounts are not relied upon by this Council. Eotrus, can you at least tell us what happened to these mysterious brigands that you claim that you were tracking? The ones that attacked that little trading post—Riker’s whatever it is called.”
“As I said, we lost their trail at the city gates. We can’t track horses on cobblestones, Chancellor.”
“Well then why has no one else seen these brigands? The patrol that escorted you here saw nothing—no mysterious carriage, no strange riders. Did they just vanish or did you burn them to ash with the trolls?”
Claradon stared at him with clenched teeth, shaking his head.
“Admit it, wolf’s-head, there were no brigands,” said Barusa. “The soldiers stationed at Riker’s found out about your conspiracy—your treason—and sought to expose you, so you and your fellows disguised yourselves and sacked the inn, killing those good men, not to mention several innocent Lomerian citizens. Admit to your crimes, Eotrus, and this council may find a measure of mercy for you.”
“You sniveling turd,” said Ob as he fingered the empty sheath where his sword hilt would be.
“This is madness,” said Claradon. “You have no basis to level such charges against us. This is a total fabrication.”
Lord Jhensezil rose to his feet. “I for one see no reason not to accept Brother Claradon’s account of these events. No evidence has been presented that contradicts any portion of his story. Might I remind this Council that Brother Claradon is a respected member of the priestly knights of the Caradonian Order and a nobleman in good standing with the Crown.”
“Reason and logic contradicts his story,” said Guildmaster Slyman.
“Neither of which you are well acquainted with,” said Jhensezil.
Slyman looked confused, trying to grasp Jhensezil's meaning.
Balfor slammed his fist the table as he eyed Jhensezil. “Always ready with your insults, aren’t you? If only your judgement were as sharp as your tongue.”
“I agree with Jhensezil,” said Duke Harringgold. “We have seen no evidence to dispute Brother Claradon’s account. I move that we formally accept the report he has submitted, and further, move at once to confirm his appointment as Lord of Dor Eotrus. I call for a vote.”
“I second his call,” said Lady Dahlia, flaxen-haired and statuesque, but fading.
“Hear hear,” said Jhensezil.
“Now wait just a minute,” said Slyman. “A moment ago we were about to slap the boy in irons for treason, and now you want to anoint him Lord of a Dor?”
“Perhaps matters are moving too quickly here,” said the Chancellor. “What say you, Bishop Tobin?”
“Hmm, perhaps it would be prudent to proceed with caution and due diligence in this matter,” said Bishop Tobin, an ancient figure who seemed asleep except when he spoke in his deep, halting voice.
“At the very least an investigation is in order, don’t you agree?” said Barusa.
“Oh, most certainly, an inquisition is warranted,” said the Bishop. “We must be thorough; the guilty must be punished. Justice demands it.”
“Indeed,” said Barusa. “And in the meantime, we shall appoint a Regent to run the affairs of Dor Eotrus until this matter is resolved.”
“There will be no stinking Regent,” shouted Ob. “That Dor belongs to the Eotrus and there it will stay. You have no right—no right at all.”
“You are the one with no rights, gnome,” said Barusa, raising his voice. “All too long we have suffered your degenerate people in our midst. What with your hoarding of ill-gotten wealth and your foul-mannered ways, not to mention your stench. You are throwbacks to times past and best forgotten. Your betters command these lands now, as is our sacred right. Your welcome here will soon be worn out.”
Prince Cartagian bounced forward in his seat. His eyes grew wide and wild. “It’s fun to hunt gnomes,” he said with an evil smile. “Your heads make such good trophies. I have a spot for you on my mantle. Gnomey, the troll killer, stuffed on my mantle; it will be wonderful.”
“Why I ought to rip your stinking heads off, you slimy sons-of-lugron.”
“That remark will cost you a month in the deepest pit I can find for you, little man,” said Barusa. “Guards!”
“To the pit, to the pit with him,” said Cartagian, capering about in front of his chair. “Throw the little bugger in the pit. Just give me his head; his head for the mantle.”
“Stop,” shouted Claradon, his tone and outstretched arm halted the guards in their tracks. “Chancellor Barusa, this madness will not stand.” Claradon took a deep breath and cleared his throat before continuing. “By the rights granted me by the Book of the Nobility, I demand satisfaction.”
Lord Harringgold started violently in his seat.
“What say you?” said Barusa as he rose to his feet with furrowed brow.
“Pipe down, boy,” said Ob, “afore you get yourself killed dead.”
“Chancellor Barusa, you have publicly accused me of murdering my father; you have called me a liar, a conspirator, and insulted and threatened the Castellan of my fortress. I cannot let this stand. I call upon the Fifth Article of the Rules of Nobility. That decree gives me the right to challenge you to single combat, fair and honorable. And this I do. I trust this Council is still bound by the traditional laws?”
Lords Harringgold and Jhensezil cringed and squirmed in their seats as Claradon spoke. Par Tanch covered his eyes and shook his head.
“Have you the courage to accept my challenge, or do you recant these offenses?” said Claradon.
“I recant nothing, you pathetic upstart. I will—”
“Upstart,” squealed Cartagian. “My cat was an upstart.”
“Hold,” shouted Lord Harringgold, nearly jumping from his seat. “Brother Claradon, think carefully before you invoke this right. Barusa is a renowned sword master, far beyond your ken. Surely, if you had known that, you wouldn’t have put forth that challenge. Withdraw it now, before he accepts, and it will be forgotten.”
Claradon stood straight and tall; his chin held high. “I know the Chancellor’s reputation, both fair and foul. My challenge stands.”
The Duke sank slowly back into his chair. “So be it then,” he said, his eyes downcast.
“And when will this duel take place?” said Slyman eagerly.
“Now,” shouted Cartagian as he pounded his fist to his chair’s armrest. “What better time than now? Someone bring me my cat, and my slippers. I demand a turnip.”
&
nbsp; Ob grabbed Claradon by the arm and pulled him down to whisper in his ear. “You’re a darned fool, boy, but if you must do this, call for it now. Otherwise, he will lay a trap and his henchmen will kill us all for sure.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Claradon straightened. “I demand that the duel be immediate. Here and now.”
“I need not comply with this,” said Barusa, waving Claradon’s words away in disgust. “Tomorrow at noon will suffice.” He turned as if to leave the hall.
“Run away, run away,” cackled Cartagian as he squatted atop his chair. “Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat. Barusa is a scaredy-cat, and I know to do with cats.”
Barusa halted and glared at the crazed prince.
“Actually,” said Lord Jhensezil, holding up a copy of the referenced text, “the decree specifies that the duel be immediate, unless the challenger chooses to postpone it or unless his opponent is ill, injured, infirm, or otherwise incapacitated.”
“Do you claim such illness or infirmity, Lord Chancellor?” said Jhensezil.
Barusa shot him an evil glare. “Very well. We will do this now,” he said through gritted teeth. But then his tone changed. “We must of course always comply with the law, until at last the laws are changed,” he said sardonically, an evil grin across his weathered face.
“Yes, change the laws,” said Cartagian. “All the fun things are illegal. The laws are so tiresome, such bother—let’s burn them all. Make them ash, just like gnomey’s trolls.”
“For too long we’ve looked upon the law as written in stone, unchanging forevermore, but that is backward and unjust,” said Barusa. “Our laws must be living, breathing documents that change with the times or else they make no sense. This challenge proves that. The days of duels are long past and best forgotten, but yet here we stand, with the old laws as they are, and so, a duel it must be. A duel to the death.”
“The Sergeant of the Guard will recover Brother Claradon’s sword from the antechamber,” announced Lord Jhensezil. “Prepare yourselves, gentlemen, and may Odin’s hand guide the righteous to victory.”
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