“Move,” growled the guard holding Randall’s left arm, and he reluctantly complied as he continued to look out over what he now knew to be Greystone.
They marched down the narrow path, with the archers standing several paces behind Randall as he made his way around the long, sweeping bend of the cliff. As they came around, even more of the city was revealed—including what was obviously the main palace.
It was not a building like one would expect, but rather it seemed to be one of the mountain’s bluffs, or peaks, which now resembled nothing so much as a spiral-shaped seashell like Randall had used to make music with as a child. There was a winding, spiral path which coiled around the outside of the peak, and at semi-regular intervals there were huge archways and doors carved into the rock itself.
At the base of this mountainous palace was a pair of tall towers, between which sat a wide staircase. The stairs were in turn broken by a pair of equally wide landings, and it only took Randall a few moments to realize that the landing was their destination. He saw a huge throng of people gathered at the base of the steps, as well as at the landing itself.
As they approached he saw an ornate, throne-like, wooden chair stationed at the center of the topmost landing. Surrounding the chair were perhaps a dozen individuals—including the hulking, brooding man sitting in the chair itself, who was dressed in unrecognizable furs and wore a crown of antlers on his head.
Randall heard a voice pierce the morning air from the top landing, and he looked to see a tall, wiry human beside the throne was the source. “Our most esteemed Jarl, Balgruf the Third, Master of Greystone and Sovereign Lord of the Binding Chain, does hereby declare these Trials Public, the 74th of their kind during this most blessed 659th Illumination, to be in session. Bring forth the first of the accused.”
Randall felt his heartbeat quicken as they pushed their way past the crowd and began to ascend the first landing. It seemed that most of the people situated at the base of the landing were commoners like himself, and while there were no guards stationed to stop them, they did not set foot on the steps themselves and were apparently content with their current positions.
Randall also noticed that several of the nearby rooftops were covered with spectators, who were seated in what was clearly great anticipation of the morning’s events—and Randall felt certain he knew what it was they were awaiting.
It was the same in Three Rivers whenever there was to be a public execution of some kind. People would flock to the site for a chance to jeer the criminals or even to hurl various, degrading objects at them while they took their final breaths.
Stiffening his spine, he only noticed the soreness in his leg after they were halfway up the first set of steps. Determined not to falter for fear of the ridicule he was certain would meet him, he took slow, deliberate steps as they ascended to the middle landing.
Once there, the guards escorted him to the left edge of the landing, where he stood behind a similarly bound prisoner—a fat, odorous human who clearly had not taken a bath in…well, in an indeterminate period of time.
His attention was thankfully diverted by the voice of the herald beside the Jarl’s throne. “What is your name?” the herald asked officiously.
Randall looked to the man he had addressed, and saw well-muscled man wearing Federation-style clothing standing shackled between a pair of guards. The man stuck his chin out defiantly and replied, “I am Nadrem, Citizen of the Federation and veteran of the Reaches War of ten years ago.”
The herald turned pointedly to one of the nearby occupants of the upper landing—a human wearing a long, blue robe with the symbol of union emblazoned on the front—and Randall immediately recognized him as a high-ranking Federation politician of some kind.
The Federation politician—the only person present who Randall could identify as a Federation representative—nodded smoothly and said, “The Federation does recognize this man as one of its own.”
The herald returned his nod with a gracious one of his own before turning pointedly back to the prisoner, Nadrem. “What is your profession, Citizen Nadrem?”
The prisoner stuck his chest out slightly and in a raised voice replied, “I am a master mason and licensed builder in the contracted employ of Greystone Hold.”
The herald tilted his head in acknowledgment, and a guard approached the prisoner bearing as sheaf of papers. “Do you attest that these documents bear your sworn signature and submission to Greystone’s sovereign law governing construction within the Hold itself?”
The guard deliberately held the papers before Nadrem’s face as the prisoner nodded stiffly at each displayed document until he had confirmed the entire stack of papers. “I do.”
The herald turned pointedly to the Jarl, who nodded pointedly, causing the herald to turn back to face the prisoner. “The charges brought by the Hold against you are as follows: fraud resulting in no less than fifty thousand Gold Unions in damage; conspiracy to commit fraud resulting in damages well in excess of that figure; willful negligence in your sworn duty to the Hold resulting in the wrongful deaths of six Greystone citizens; and flight to escape prosecution. Do you contest these charges?”
Randall could see the man’s jaw tense and his fists clench in front of himself as he shook his head angrily. “Fifty thousand Gold Unions?” he spat bitterly. “I barely even grossed a tenth of that!”
The herald shook his head measuredly. “Your willful disregard for the Hold’s laws regarding acceptable building materials—laws to which you previously agreed to abide by, as evidenced by your sworn statements—resulted in catastrophic damage to not only the structures erected under your license and the death of said building’s inhabitants, but also caused extensive damage to neighboring properties as well. Your contract with the Hold was quite specific on this matter, was it not?” the herald asked pointedly, and Randall could almost feel the crowd behind him lean forward in anticipation.
Randall could see the fire leave Nadrem’s expression almost immediately as he lowered his head and nodded. “Yes…it was.”
“And do you deny these charges, individually or collectively?” the herald pressed.
Nadrem’s hands were visibly shaking with anger, but Randall saw him relax himself and shake his head emphatically. “No, I do not.”
The herald began to turn and gave a short, clearly deliberate pause before finally facing the Jarl. “How does the Jarl find the accused?”
The Jarl propped one elbow on the massive, curved arm on his throne and leaned his coal-black, bearded chin against his propped up hand for several minutes as the prisoner looked down at his own feet.
“Contrite,” the Jarl finally replied in a deep, rumbling voice which somehow carried on the wind and echoed throughout the valley.
The herald nodded and turned to again face the prisoner. “The Jarl has found your submission to the Hold’s justice to be acceptable.” The herald then turned to the Federation representative, “As the prisoner is a Federation Citizen, the Hold requests a formal summary of his assets as stipulated in the Federation Peace Accords, signed sixty years ago this month.”
The Federation representative stepped forward and produced a tightly bound scroll, which he handed to the herald. “The Federation is pleased to uphold its treaty with the sovereign city-state of Greystone,” he said with a politician’s duplicitous, serpentine smile.
The herald inclined his head as he accepted the scroll, which he unrolled and began to read silently. He held the document for the Jarl to peruse, who did so briefly before nodding curtly, prompting the herald to turn to face the prisoner once again.
“Your crimes have resulted in a total of nearly one hundred thousand Gold Unions in damages and statutory recompenses which, in the contract you previously attested to signing, you agreed to pay in the event of such an outcome,” the herald said in a raised voice, “but your assets barely amount to one third of that. It is therefore the Hold’s judgment that you must repay those you betrayed via public, corporal p
unishment, both to prevent future abuses by yourself, and as an example to those who would follow your nefarious example.”
The herald turned to the Federation representative, “The mandatory penalty for theft or fraud resulting in grand damages is the removal of the guilty party’s primary arm between the elbow and the shoulder; the penalty for conspiracy to commit such fraud is the excision of the guilty party’s tongue; the penalty for flight to avoid justice is the removal of one foot; and the penalty for the wrongful death of more than two individuals due to a singular count of willful negligence is the removal of one’s head. Does the Federation Ambassador object to these forms of punishment individually or collectively?”
The Ambassador stepped forward and bowed low. “The Federation abides by the Peace Accords, and merely wishes to express its regret in this unfortunate matter.”
The herald nodded stiffly before turning to the Jarl and gesturing to the prisoner. “Shall the Hold execute the mandatory sentences at this time?”
The Jarl stood slowly from his throne, and Randall could only now appreciate just how massive the man was. He was easily a head taller than the herald, who was in turn nearly a head taller than the second tallest person on the landing. The Jarl stepped forward and looked around pointedly at the city, whose collective eyes were clearly on him.
“The sentence of decapitation is to be commuted in exchange for the entirety of the Citizen’s worldly possessions, which shall be distributed to the families of those he has wronged,” the Jarl’s voice boomed throughout the valley. “And due to the prisoner’s…acceptance of his wrongdoing, Greystone will graciously spare his tongue in favor of a brand upon his forehead marking him a traitor to the Hold, and an Exile from these lands forever more.”
The herald nodded emphatically as the Jarl made his way back to his throne. “Does the prisoner accept the Hold’s generous offer…or does he wish to challenge the Jarl’s authority to dispense justice in this matter?” the herald asked officiously.
Nadrem shook his head hastily. “I accept the Hold’s generosity,” he said in a quavering voice.
The herald then turned to the Ambassador. “And does the Federation agree to abide by this sentence, and prevent the prisoner from replacing the lost appendages using magical, alchemical, or other regenerative means?”
The Ambassador nodded with a flourish as he turned slightly toward the Jarl. “The Federation most graciously thanks Greystone for its learned judgment in this most delicate matter. The prisoner’s punishment will be upheld under Federation law.”
Randall could see Nadrem bristle slightly before he forcibly relaxed himself. The man’s lip began to tremble, but he managed to keep his composure as a pair of guards escorted him off the landing.
“Bring forth the next prisoner,” the herald called out, and the guards flanking the odious, pudgy man in front of Randall trotted him up to the same spot where Nadrem had stood moments earlier.
Randall could barely believe the expediency of the procedure. In Three Rivers, such trials lasted weeks or months—sometimes years, in the event of a particularly wealthy individual standing accused—but here they had dealt with the matter in mere minutes.
But Randall was far from comforted by the realization that the Federation Ambassador appeared to wield some measure of influence in the proceedings—not to mention the summary nature of the judgments being handed down by the Jarl’s system of justice.
“What is your name?” the herald asked of the fidgeting, odious man.
The pudgy prisoner looked about nervously, and Randall could see a short, broad man on the opposite side of the landing crack his knuckles as a look of sheer anger filled his face.
“Your name, prisoner,” the herald repeated staidly.
The man’s eyes snapped up to make contact with the herald’s and he muttered something unintelligible.
“Louder,” the herald urged, his voice as hard as iron.
“Barakus,” the man replied, and this time his voice was amplified and it echoed off the stone cliffs, causing the man to wince visibly.
The herald nodded and turned to the man, who was still cracking his knuckles, and Randall saw a young, half-elven woman behind the burly man. Her face was turned toward the ground in shame—a look Randall had seen all too many times, and he felt himself flare with anger as the herald continued. “In matter such as these, magical verifications of the accuser’s veracity are required; will the offended party please step forward.”
The young woman stepped forward, and the burly human who had been cracking his knuckles stood at her side as she approached the base of the steps leading up to the top landing.
“What is your name?” the herald asked, and his voice was ever so slightly softer than it had been.
The girl was silent for several moments, until the burly man placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She straightened her back and cleared her throat quietly before replying, “I am Yunia, from Rikluliyu by Felix, and daughter of Greystone.”
The herald turned to a figure standing near the Jarl’s throne and Randall felt his eyebrows rise in surprise—she was a half-elf! She had long, curly, almost impossibly bulky red hair sticking out from beneath a wide, asymmetrical hat—a hat whose style reminded him of the one Tavleros had worn the day he had left Dan’Moread in the bar…
The woman inclined her head agreeably, causing the herald to nod in satisfaction before turning back to the prisoner. “Do you recognize this young woman?” he asked, gesturing to Yunia with an open hand.
The man shifted his weight uncomfortably and shook his head defiantly. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
The herald turned pointedly to the red-haired woman beside the throne, who shook her head just enough that the gesture could be seen from Randall’s vantage point. The herald then turned to the Federation Ambassador, who returned the look with total impassivity. The herald held his gaze for several seconds before turning back to the prisoner. “You are hereby found guilty of perjury, Barakus, which in itself is not a crime in Greystone—but the Hold does not look kindly on those who disrespect our forgiving system of justice.”
Randall could feel the crowd tense behind him, and he looked over his shoulder to confirm that the eyes of the assembled throng were filled with more than anger—they burned with an obvious thirst for blood.
The herald turned to Yunia and continued, “Do you accuse this man of violently assaulting you in a carnal manner, and is it your contention that he was completely unsolicited in doing so?”
The young woman nodded twice. “I do, and it is,” she affirmed.
The herald turned again to the red-haired woman, who was standing slightly closer to the Jarl’s throne, and she tilted her head affirmatively. The herald then turned to the Federation Ambassador, whose features were still schooled into an impartial mask—but even Randall could see the anger burning in his eyes as he tilted his head.
Turning back to the prisoner, the herald asked, “Do you deny these charges individually or collectively?”
Barakus looked around nervously, and Randall could see the anticipation in the eyes of the human man standing beside the young girl. “She was giving me looks all night long,” he protested in an almost squeaky voice. “Besides, she’s a half-elf; everyone knows they can beguile a man with less than that!”
The herald made to reply, but before he could speak the Jarl’s voice boomed and echoed across the cliffs, “A person’s race has no bearing in Greystone’s laws; mind yourself, prisoner, lest you exhaust my people’s legendary patience. They will abide by this court’s decision,” he cracked a wicked smile as he gestured to the assembled crowd, and Randall could see that the entire front row of his upper teeth looked to be made of solid gold, “but even I could not hope to keep back such an assemblage of angry people should you spit in their eye thus.”
The crowd seemed to pulse with anticipation, but Randall kept his eyes forward this time as the herald allowed the Jarl’s words to sink
in. He had no desire to look back and see the bloodthirsty eyes of the group at his back.
“Do you deny these charges, individually or collectively?” the herald repeated after a long, tense silence.
Barakus glanced over at the young girl before shaking his head in obvious anxiety. “I was drunk the night it happened; I can’t be held accountable for my actions in such a state!”
The herald shook his head slowly, and Randall heard a small chorus of soft snickers from the crowd behind him. “Were you forced to partake of the spirits which you imbibed?” he asked officiously.
Barakus’ brow furrowed. “Well…no, but I don’t see how that—“
“According to Greystone law, drunkenness is not an extenuating circumstance in defining one’s crime or crimes,” the herald cut him off. “Neither is it an offense in and of itself within the Hold’s borders, but actions taken under the influence of any variety of spirits which were willingly imbibed are treated no differently than those taken while not under said influence. This ordinance is well-documented in all places which publicly purvey such substances—including the three taverns you frequented on the night of the crime.”
The pudgy man froze in place as he took in the herald’s words. When he made no reply, the herald continued, “Did you assault this woman carnally against her stated will, and without solicitation of any kind?”
Barakus looked nervously from side to side before nodding grudgingly. The herald turned pointedly to the red-haired woman, who tilted her head approvingly. He then turned to the Federation Ambassador, who inclined his head stiffly.
“Very well,” the herald continued as he turned to face the prisoner once again, “the punishment for rape is partial castration; but for violent rape such as this only full castration is permitted under Hold law. Do you accept this punishment for your crimes against Greystone…or do you wish to challenge the Jarl’s authority to dispense justice in this matter?”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 35