by Ben Stivers
She remembered men on a ship had taken her father away from the town of Ploor, and her mother had left one morning to purchase food and had never returned. Elsa had taken to the streets and through a winding road of happenstance had ended up in Hellsgate two years before in the back of a wobbly wagon on its way to the stable master.
Since that time, she had been well fed. She had performed her duties and learned her trade, completed her daily chores. Most men that claimed her were over and done in a matter of minutes and expected nothing of her except to lay still.
This particular night, however, she had not been assigned to a routine customer. The man had come from out of town and brought half a dozen others like him. Dour, and hard-faced, they were rugged like sharp stone, not worn by the scouring of water and weather, but chiseled like the broken peaks of Sawtooth.
Of the three dozen girls working there, Elsa had mingled and tried to blend, but it had not taken much time for the leader of the band of ruffians to cull her out and haul her off to a room.
From the beginning, she knew that he would cause trouble. He ripped her clothes off like a wolf downing a deer and shoved her onto the floor, not even electing for the creaky platform she used for a bed. She accepted the brusqueness without complaint. Men like him required satiation and he would be done and gone before his mind could even adjust to the moment.
He wasted no time with pulling off his boots, just pulled his pants down and lurched onto her, clumsily trying to mount. His fetid drunken panting reached her nostrils and she tried to turn her head away from the stink, but he would have none of that.
Twice he slapped her across her face, then clenched her delicate chin in a tight grip and held her eyes to his.
“That’s it, bitch, fight!”
Elsa had no such notion. She simply did not wish to smell his stench. She wanted him to be done and be gone, but he slapped her three more times, trying in between those times to shove his tongue into her mouth. Elsa resisted that, feeling a gorge of vomit working its way up through a mounting nausea.
Trying to strip herself of sensation, she focused on a scar on his neck. It puckered, raised like a burn, a circle with flying limbs, a spiral perhaps behind his right ear. He yanked her hair. She focused her mind and shoved away what was happening, going limp and letting the man have his way.
That, however, did not satisfy him, though it did push him beyond his own resistance. Finishing with a shivering grunt, he stood up, and then grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wall. Content, it would seem, to strangle her into unconsciousness, but before she felt the warmth of oblivion envelope her, he threw her onto the sleeping platform and punched her in the face with his rock-hard fist.
He shouted at her, but a steep ringing in her ears deafened her to his words.
After two more fists to her face, he opened the door and threw her like a ragdoll out into the hallway to come up short against an unforgiving opposing door. She slumped, wishing to escape, but her body did not answer her commands. The scarred man grabbed her by the arm and hurled her down the short flight of stairs where she sprawled, dizziness wrapping her and spinning her around while she lay still. A murmur of concern rose in the room, though no one came to her aid.
Twice more the man struck her. Once in the stomach, shoving the air painfully out of her body and another blow to the face. Elsa registered the crunch of a broken jaw, but already she had become detached from the surrealistic happenings.
He tossed her out the front door, and as she tried to climb back to her feet, he levied a swift kick to her ribs that propelled her onto her back and into the street where the rain fell in a torrent.
Foggily, she saw him screaming at her, but she could not hear him. The buzz in her ears kept her from hearing anything. Blinking slowly, she grasped the rain, hoping to pull herself out of fogginess. The man stormed back into the brothel and slammed the door, leaving her in the night.
How much time passed before she tried to regain her feet, she could not verify, but slowly the misty veil of separation drifted away and the pain in her ribs and her face sharpened her ability to think.
Feebly, she climbed to her feet, facing the Virgin. No one had come out to fetch her. None of the other prostitutes had come to see if she might even still be alive. For the first time since her mother’s disappearance, she knew aloneness. If no one there cared enough about her to so much as check on her, then perhaps her days at the Virgin should end.
Turning away, she stepped into first a rut, through which she tripped and then staggered into a deep puddle. If she could get to the stables, the man there would help her. He had been kind to her the few times they had seen one another and the stable was but three buildings down and across Pagan’s Way.
Something bumped her ankle, sending a note of confusion to her jumbled thoughts. Perplexed, she looked down as a yellow, twisting tentacle rose from the water and wrapped her left leg to the hip. Fascinated by the spectacle, she watched as another tentacle wrapped her right.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to look away, but already her head swam as her legs told her that sharp spines punctured her in a dozen different places. Her face held her horror. Her expression told her agony.
Had the tentacles not held her stationary, she would have staggered as the two tentacles tightened their grip and hauled a gaping bulbous head out of the water, as though it inflated when it touched the air. The gargantuan mouth opened, rolling rows of teeth that spiraled into an atramentous void, gyrating inside the orange and crimson mouth. She thought to scream, but she could not, the thing had her, warped her, crushed her, swallowed her in a blaze of fiery endlessness.
No one heard her. Elsa the whore was mute.
On the streets of Hellsgate, the rain continued to pound the street, pushing up droplets on flat puddles.
Midday in Overlord City brought Nerva to court to hear the cases of citizens who had a grievance one to another that they could not settle amongst themselves. The courtroom was a remnant structure of the original Rome, a portion of a basilica. Columns towered on each side of the aisle. The ceiling housed a station from which Iustitia sat in judgment as the goddess of justice over the court. Looking stern in her blindfold, her balance in her left hand, and her mighty sword in her right, her lips traced grimly across her face. Slick marble floors and a broad expanse, most days citizens and their arguments clogged the courtroom.
This day, however, the room held only the Governor and a hand full of guards selected by Sabinus to serve the court.
Sabinus entered from a side door and strolled ostentatiously to the throne, dressed in a hooded black robe that shadowed his face, though standing so close to Nerva, his expression could be seen.
“Are you ready for today’s hearings?”
Nerva considered the question for a moment, a second thought as to whether what they had discussed remained the best course of action.
“People may rebel against change,” he remarked and tried to keep concern from his face in front of Sabinus.
Sabinus laid his hand upon the top of Nerva’s and assured him quietly so that even the guards could not hear.
“Without exception, those around you have infinitesimal minds and minute thoughts, Excellency. They have no vision but for a particular moment in their ordinary day. Without your guidance, progress will falter. The city itself will collapse from apathy. You must lead these people. If they could lead themselves, they would have.”
Looking into Sabinus’ deep eyes, Nerva supposed his advisor was right. This was but the first step with many more to come. In the end, the world would achieve peace and prosperity. Retrospectively, history would surely agree that his methods were justified.
Per Sabinus’ advice, Nerva had dismissed the normal judge and taken the role himself while Sabinus remained to confer. His counsel would remedy many conflicts on the spot, suspending long and drawn out cases that clogged the current judicial. The judges would be released and new judges appointed by Sabinu
s. Nerva was glad for that. Appointing offices was a troublesome business and Sabinus had volunteered to oversee the selection. That made Nerva’s life that much more quiet.
Bureaucracy reduction would become Nerva’s newest message to his subjects. Simplification. Less delay to have one’s grievances heard. Less gibberish. Less assumption that the government should solve one’s ills.
The courtroom had been cleared of lurkers, come to see the business of the day. If they had time to loiter in a courtroom, they could be doing something more worthy of their time—a task for the city, perhaps. Much work remained.
Those who had a wrong they needed right waited in the large open broad way of the basilica. They did not need to hear the inner workings of the court.
Four guards stood on each side of the courtroom aisle, and one guard had taken a position at the door to announce each case from the docket. Sabinus had chosen a total of nine and taken them on a month-long sequestering. He taught them procedure, courtroom etiquette and how the court should be respected. They had returned particularly honed for the new way.
“Griere and Lomast,” he called, opening the door and allowing the two complainants into the courtroom and then shutting the door behind them.
Griere entered the courtroom confident that he would have his way in court. He had known Nerva since the man pushed papers for a living. They had done a scant amount of business together, and Griere had done him a favor once, fixing an iron hinge on his house before he assumed his new position. No matter the verdict, he would be heard and the court would without a doubt see the army’s claim egregious.
Nerva watched the complainants enter. Griere had come dressed in his blacksmith clothes. He had not bothered to wash the soot from his face and hands, but the guard outside the door had taken the tools from his belt. Griere was as big as a horse with burn marks on his face, arms and hands. His brown eyes matched the bark of a chestnut tree.
Lomast, a lower bureaucrat within the army’s supply ranks had dressed in his uniform. Nerva had worked with him on a city matter or two, particularly supply for Nerva’s army. He did not truly care for Lomast’s methods, but the man was effective. Lomast was younger and smaller than Griere, more wiry and soft looking, his hair properly combed and a lanky smile on his lips. He figured to be the victor in this judgment, and he might well be. That remained to be seen.
“Who will speak first?” he asked.
Lomast glanced at Griere and Griere passed him a go-ahead nod. Evidently, he had no qualms about his own ability to present his case.
“Governor—.”
“Address the judge as ‘Your Majesty’,” Sabinus interrupted.
Lomast paused, looked at Sabinus questioningly. Nerva raised his hand at the elbow without lifting it from the arm of the chair, stating his ability to interrupt anyone.
“Sabinus is a new appointee. He advises the court. Follow his word as you would my own.”
The question remained on Lomast’s face, but he proceeded with hesitancy in his voice. “Your—majesty, my good friend Griere here, for we have done business together for years has—.”
“Stop!” Sabinus took a step forward, no longer standing behind Nerva. “For too long the courts have heard much irrelevant discourse. We do not care your business relationship, nor a personal background. You have asked Nerva’s time for judgment of a grievance. State your case and spare us your idle chatter.”
His razor sharp tongue tensely set the atmosphere.
“Griere and his son are contracted to the army for armor and horseshoes. At present, we are late one hundred horseshoes. Griere promised to deliver them a month ago, but we have not received them. We have asked that he either reduce the price, or supply additional shoes when he does make delivery. An additional two dozen is all that we ask.”
“I see,” said Nerva, examining his fingernails rather than Lomast. “Griere, you don’t agree to these terms?”
“I do not. The delay is not my fault.”
“Indeed? Explain.”
“The army was late purchasing the ore from the miners. I cannot make shoes if they have not supplied me with the materials. That was a term in our agreement. Neither of us considered there would be an impairment.”
“Your—majesty,” Lomast stumbled over the title, and then continued on, “While what Griere says is true, it is not the fault of the army. Our supplier was ambushed near the Black Forest and our shipment of ore stolen.”
“Why would someone steal a load of ore?” Sabinus questioned when Nerva did not.
“I—well—I don’t know why someone would steal anything,” Lomast replied, acidly delivering the last.
“They would steal gold to become rich,” Sabinus replied. “Are you saying they stole a load of iron ore to become rich?”
Lomast stood, blank-faced.
“Well?” Nerva interjected, regaining control of the questioning without interrupting Sabinus.
“I don’t know what gold has to do with iron, but the ore remains stolen. We dispatched soldiers to accompany the next shipment, but that required negotiation with the seller to arrive at an equitable price.”
“That is not my fault!” Grier joined.
“I have heard sufficient testimony,” Nerva replied. “Sabinus, have you heard enough as well?”
Sabinus shrugged, backing away from pressing the topic. “Such things are not for me to speculate. You are the ruler here. I am a mere advisor.”
Nerva paused, thought about what he had heard and called to the two guards who stood nearest. “Give them each a sword.”
The guards reacted quickly, breaking their rigid stance, drawing their swords and presenting them pommel first. Neither Griere nor Lomast took the swords, but instead gave their full attention to Nerva.
“Settle this,” Nerva said. “Take the swords. Decide by combat.”
“Governor,” Lomast replied, breaking protocol. “Griere is not a soldier. I see no reason—.”
“Yes, yes. That is why you are not in charge. Take the sword before Griere runs you through.”
“I will not,” Griere said, as Lomast tentatively extended his hand, a stricken look marring his confident face. “This is not worth spilling even a drop of blood over. I will not participate in killing for such a thing.”
“If you do not, you will die.”
Lomast continued his protest. “Death of our blacksmith will not serve the army, Governor. It will delay us further. This is uncalled for.”
“I command it. The two of you can decide the victor for yourself, or you can both be stowed in the dungeon until you are ready to resolve your differences with a sword. You brought this nonsense to me. You must pay the due.”
Lomast’s hand rested on the grip of the sword, but he did not draw it from the soldier. “Governor, the articles forbid the state from executing a citizen for civil grievances.”
“I am not executing anyone. One of you will do that.”
“Then you will accuse me of murder.” Lomast retrieved his hand. “I will not kill a blacksmith over two dozen horseshoes.”
“And I will not kill Lomast for any reason,” Griere replied. “You cannot make me do something that I believe iniquitous. Lock me up if you want, but I will not assent.”
“I have heard you. Sabinus, approach.”
Sabinus made a great circumstance of his two steps and the subsequent whispering between the men. Sabinus finally stepped away and returned his attention to the two men, as did Nerva. “In this case, you are unwilling to settle your differences and have grieved to this court. The court finds you both contemptible. You shall be taken directly to the prison, as well as your families, and you will suffer there until such time as this court finds the time to review your case once again. Your properties will be deeded to the city to pay for your incarceration.”
“You have no such authority!” Lomast protested. “My family has done nothing!”
Griere, however, had heard enough. He had been a young man when the Apost
les controlled Overlord City. He did not need a fresh lesson in history to realize where this journey ended. Grabbing the sword from the nearest guard’s hand, he sprinted up the three stair steps, intent on running Nerva through.
Sabinus, however, reached Griere two steps closer, impacting the large man’s body with a revealed blade. Griere’s forward charge stopped. He dropped his ill-held sword and stumbled back, gasping at the blood spilling out onto the front of his tunic.
“They were just horseshoes,” he gasped, then collapsed to the polished marble floor.
Lomast’s eyes were large as a stallion’s as he watched the crimson pool spread around the base of the dais upon which Nerva sat. The governor’s eyes held wonder and a torrent of questions in them, but he held his tongue, deferring to his advisor for that moment.
Sabinus held no emotion on his face, but to Lomast he said, “I have settled this for you. The next time you grieve this court, be sure you don’t idly waste the governor’s time.”
Lomast backed away, and then sprinted from the room.
Sabinus barked an order to the lead guard, who opened a side door. Half a dozen figures, cloaked in ornate crimson robes, finely detailed with exquisite gold runes, entered, heads down. The room fell silent and Nerva’s eyes came to rest up Sabinus with puzzlement.
Sabinus nodded, a simple gesture, and said, “These men are under my employ. They are aptly titled ‘Death Handlers’ to reflect their trade.”
Nerva looked toward the men and then back to Sabinus who continued. “There are many dead in the lower streets of the city. My Death Handlers will be responsible to gather them all and take them away from the city to the Black Forest for burial. This will ensure disease does not spread and will aid in the healing of Overlord City. They are free to come and go and do their jobs.”
“We have undertakers.”
“They charge for their services, Nerva. These men do not. They will tend to the rituals and the burials, the transportation of the bodies and full disposal. Undertakers are obsolete.”