UnNamed

by Krista Gossett

  The clopping sounds of hooves neared from behind him on the ill-kept clumps of road, but it was the metallic clanging that made him bristle. His eyes crept towards the sound to see a small retinue of the armored knights of Rathbern.

  The wraiths had already started their swirling, his thrall stirring, but the beacon’s appearance had been the most shocking of all.

  The woman that led the knights was ablaze with it.

  With little time to act, he formed a bow and shot a flaming arrow into the neck of the man that rode beside her, forcing them all into the Gate Realm.

  The woman and the newly dead man clattered to the ground, their horses left behind when he pulled them in. She glared at him, her dead comrade confused with the sudden change in the monochromatic world around them.

  He could hear the Maidens had stopped the calling and fought the wraiths on their own while he faced the woman, malice only feeding his thrall’s bloodlust.

  “Whore of the Triumvirate,” he spat, hoping to provoke her to strike first.

  “You never should have returned here.”

  It was hardly a surprise that she knew who he was.

  “I can’t kill you, but I can fuck you up pretty badly,” he warned, feeling the thrall shape the flames in his hands into a long spear. The thrall was swallowing him once more, as if Fajja’s gift had abandoned him.

  She seemed to just then notice the Mark that blazed on his cheek, her face flickered with conflict.

  “I am duty bound to capture you for trial.”

  He laughed bitterly. He knew well how much the people of Rathbern treasured ‘duty,’ none more so than the Knights.

  “I wouldn’t advise that. I’m the only thing standing between you and certain death.”

  She drew her sword, a slave to her duty. Couldn’t say he didn’t know the burdens of slavery or choice, but she was picking the wrong one of the two.

  He prepared to charge, but a swift cold pounding on his head made the world tilt. He twisted to see Brute there, her face a stony mask as he crumpled into unconsciousness.

  Drip.

  Drip, drip.

  You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. At the very least, the

  dripping wasn’t drilling into his forehead, but in a bucket several feet away.

  The downside was that bucket doubled as a toilet. You never forgot the smell of a dungeon once you’ve been unlucky enough to land in one. He raised his aching head an inch from the floor to see the bars on his cell before his neck muscles surrendered. Only took an inch between the floor meeting the back of his head to remind him that ham-fisted lesbian had laid him out in the first place.

  Some part of his ego wondered what the hell they would do without him, but he had doubted from the beginning that he was necessary at all. It didn’t take all of the them to call the beacon, even if it did make it easier. Could he blame them for betraying him? Hardly. He knew damn well he might have done the same.

  Still pissed him right off.

  He might have laid there for hours, but the authoritative sound of footsteps told him he was making it far too easy to get kicked around from his current position as doormat.

  He barely registered the cuffs at his wrists, the chain that anchored one foot to the wall, focusing only on how the hell his body worked.

  Clenching his teeth against the protest of his swollen brain, he sat up, bracing one shoulder against the wall. Using all the force he could muster, he launched his legs straight, sliding up the wall as he did. Standing upright might have just been seen as open defiance, so he was content to just be eye-level with whatever fuckwit they sent along.

  A blurry silhouette was all he saw as the footsteps receded again. He almost smiled at whatever part of his ego was so sure they were coming for him, might have crumpled back to the floor if not for the sound of keys jiggling in the lock.

  He might as well have been lying on the floor for the sheer size of the man that had to duck to enter his cell. The giant of a man wore head to toe black, which wasn’t as intimidating as the fact the big bastard had actually snuck up on him. Couldn’t help but wonder if he was losing his touch when nosy little redheads and behemoths could get one over on him these days.

  “Shouldn’t have come back. You’ll get a trial, but you’re as good as dead, you know,” the giant drawled, the thick western accent sounding oddly cordial.

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I could kill you now. I’ll be more merciful than they will be.”

  He didn’t doubt that anything the giant said in that voice probably sounded like a good idea.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  The giant shrugged.

  “You’ll probably change your mind after you try the food here.”

  “Can’t say I ever liked Rathbern cuisine so I’ll take your word for it.”

  His pack and cloak were gone but they had taken his boots too. He had left the guards behind, intending to replace them once they’d gone into town but that had never happened. He hadn’t needed weapons since the thrall was sufficient.

  Speaking of which, he wondered if the blow had knocked something loose in his brain. Usually his thrall would have simmered under his skin the moment he sensed a threat, but try as he might, he couldn’t get a single spark of it. If this lumbering humungoid wasn’t a threat, he didn’t know what was. No amount of trying roused the thrall, the attempt as useful as striking a wet flint.

  The giant had produced a tray, from where didn’t bear thinking about, and set it on the rickety stool between them. The poorly wrapped food looked like it was well past expiration, if you could call it food at all.

  “Add a few maggots and it’d pass for a delicacy,” he joked, but the giant had already filed out, shutting the barred door behind him.

  As tempting as it was to go on a hunger strike, the dried mass of meat and stale bread looked like passable options.

  Brat would be skittering around looking for a way out, but that was almost always a huge waste of energy. Assuming that he was now on his own, his best escape option was looking like a last ditch escape attempt at the execution itself.

  Days passed, although how many he couldn’t be certain. His world was without windows. Execution would have been merciful compared to incarceration. The most cost effective way probably would have been to just bury him alive, but he’d keep that to himself. He wasn’t yet to the point where he was rubbing his only two brain cells together to stay warm.

  Sometimes he thought of the Rain Maidens, Cherry more often than most. If she thought he stunk before, she’d really be in for a surprise now. Room service neglected to take care of the bucket and he had long before taken to peeing in the far corner, saving the bucket for more solid business.

  When he wasn’t thinking outside of his box or horrified at being in it, his moments were spent trying to find the thrall. He swore it was still there, but something blocked it. He wished Fajja would at least have the decency to torment him, but his luxurious stay had been dreamless. Any other time, he might have thought it a blessing, but it certainly wasn’t now.

  When the big tall bitch came again, the food was damn near gourmet fare and he knew his trial was nearing. He had later been hauled out, sprayed down and scrubbed like a horse then dressed in the stuffy attire of a noble. He knew exactly what game this was. Even if he fought them now, it wouldn’t change anything about the trial. That much had been decided just as surely as the accusations against his parents.

  People demanded justice, only no one had ever questioned exactly what his parents had done to begin with. No one asked because the ugly truth was only that they had pissed off some very powerful people. In actuality, his parents could have been squeaky clean and simply refused to dirty their hands. He wasn’t so naïve to think that his parents had kept their hands clean, but he did suspect that they were asked to do something they objected to. Even if they hadn’t outright refused, hesitation might have been enough.

  It could have been as simple
as having their own water supply, but he knew better. Knowledge was one power still left to him.

  Two Knights came to escort him to trial that day. No one but the ogre that fed him had ever said one word to him, but there had also never been the shiny armored escorts either. Through the slits in one helmet, he saw familiar eyes—the shrewd amber ones belonging to the Rain Maiden.

  “Amber,” he mumbled, but neither her nor the other acknowledged he had said anything at all.

  He allowed himself to be led, still quietly contemplating what he knew. Let them think he was complying to this farce; the trial would not go as smoothly as they hoped if he had any say. It was quite possible that any attempt to defend himself would have him shot dead on the spot. He counted on his memory of the Triumvirate’s love of flashy procedure and order to spare him of that ‘brutality.’

  If he had ever seen the inside of a courtroom, he couldn’t remember it, but he doubted it looked anything like this. No, the only ‘court’ he had recalled was the nondescript hall where that pervert had pointed a finger and put him before a Gardell.

  It was more amphitheater than the stark setting of cold justice. There were even box seats packed with clamoring nobility fanning themselves as if the sight of him made them too delicate to remember how to breathe. They crinkled and bustled in their ridiculous finery, all long noses, weak chins, and powdered skin. They either cowered or showed their disgust at the scar splitting the left side of his face as he was led to the box he would be judged in. There was something comforting in that familiarity. Much more so than the surreality of being told those scars were beautiful.

  He looked back at the court once he had been forced to sit, screwing up his face with ill-concealed amusement at how the plaintiff-defendant division so closely resembled the bride-groom setup in weddings… His work had not been above crashing a wedding or two.

  The stage this play was set on was only a few streamers shy of a wedding. He might have felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter if not for the stark white robes of the Triumvirate sitting in where any just court might actually seat a judge. The King of Orendon himself would never sit in a Rathbern court although he would have paid to see it. The Triumvirate fancied themselves Kings, if not Gods, and to see them on a lower dais with a king presiding over them was a thought he found far too amusing.

  Without any visible signal he had seen, the clamoring of the court died down and the smack of a gavel echoed its crisp clacks over the hall, quashing any residual murmurs.

  All eyes shifted, at war with whether to look at his ugly mug or to take their cues from the posture of the Triumvirate. Gods knew the walking handkerchiefs were starved for the attention of their obedient masses, one nose blow away from being downgraded to a tissue.

  The bailiff stepped forward, appropriately dressed in mustard-hued silk like the little snot he was.

  “All rise! The Rathbern Superior Court is now in session.”

  More shuffling as the spectators rose to obey. He kept his seat until the guard that wasn’t a Rain Maiden yanked him to his feet, the Maiden leaving his side to stand beside the Triumvirate like the good little dog she was.

  “Please be seated,” he called, more shuffling and crinkling as they endeavored to the task. The guard forced him into his seat once more.

  “The honorable Triumvirate accuses the defendant, the former Lord— “

  “Let’s dispense of the formalities, shall we? Whatever title I had was stripped away when you murdered my parents,” he interrupted, a scandalous murmur sweeping through as the rapping of the gavel called for silence once more.

  “You will not speak out of turn, criminal. Announce the charges, Bailiff!” the monkey in the middle commanded, his face red with indignation.

  “Ah, yes,” the bailiff shifted, awkward at the interruption before attempting to gather his authoritative force once more. “For the crime of high treason and dodging the sentence incurred a decade hence.”

  He scoffed at this.

  “High treason? I have committed no crimes against the King and I was a child guilty only of having parents who dealt with men that fancied themselves kings,” he drawled back.

  More scandalous whispers and pounding gavels. It was a wonder that the Triumvirate’s faces could glow so red through their caked-on masks of powder.

  “You will not make a mockery of these proceedings! Speak out of turn again and you will be silenced against your own defense,” the far left monkey called out.

  His own defense was likely to be skewed regardless, but he held his tongue. He figured he had one more good opportunity to speak out against them and he intended to make it count.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the court,” came the voice of the monkey on the far right. He correctly assumed they probably had a pecking order of speaking so this one was due.

  “In the fair judgment of peers, the accused was found in compliance with the crimes of his parents. A once great noble house, they used their standing to illegally avoid taxation and build an unregulated water pipeline, one such line discovered to be conducting a spy network with the barbarians to the north.”

  This was news to him considering at fourteen years of age, the only thing he was complicit in was panty raids. He had already guessed they’d use his parents’ pipeline as the excuse. There were only two pipes that might qualify, one was the sewer pipe, which no one in their right mind would want to crawl through, and the irrigation line which drained out to the pond. That one was only traversable for a short distance before you’d have to be the size of a rabbit to branch off into the smaller pipes. He might have argued, but he knew enough about procedure to know it wasn’t time to speak.

  “In light of their crimes, the family was stripped of all titles and land and sentenced to execution. The accused escaped his fate, only to return, a trespasser on those lands to consort with the enemy once more. What have you to say to those charges?”

  There was little point in denying them. He took pleasure in the mixed reactions towards the slow smile spreading on his face, the revulsion, the flinching, the wariness.

  They probably shouldn’t have given him room to speak.

  “Ten years ago, the accused’s parents were within regulation to build the aforementioned pipeline by the very same Triumvirate that later retracted it when said parents refused to build a network they could use.”

  “Slander and hearsay! There is no proof of any such collaboration and will be stricken from the record!” the one in the middle interrupted, furious spittle flying from his lips.

  “Said parents left documentation that no doubt still exists, but would be conveniently destroyed on retrieval, so let’s not mince words. You killed my parents and attempted to murder me just to tie up loose ends. You can’t kill me twice, so what is the point of a trial? Trespassing? Spying? You have already defamed me, so what is left?”

  Then it occurred to him that maybe they couldn’t kill him. He thought about the funny smelling food, the blocked thrall, the giant’s offer. It seemed absurd, but it definitely would have been easier than keeping him alive for this farce of a trial. In lieu of all that, how the hell had he survived?

  He barely registered the mumbled chaos around him as the Triumvirate tried to control the reactions once more. Amber had stepped closer to the Triumvirate in a protective gesture. At least he had assumed so until he saw the head of one neatly sailing in an arc, her sword a slick bloody line marking its liberation.

  The chaos pitched into a fever of screams as the crowd realized the danger. He barely had time to dodge a sword that sought to free his head from his body, rolling out of the box and splaying against the wall to avoid being trampled.

  Another of the Triumvirate was struck down by none other than Brute but the remaining man was slipping through a back entrance that had been concealed before. The Maidens’ appearance had been little cause for relief and he took the opportunity to chase after the one that was getting away, barely squeezing in before the door closed
.

  He didn’t have a weapon nor his thrall to rely on, but you only needed one thing to successfully kill anyone: intent.

  As he gave chase to the fool impeded by the vain lengths of blood-spattered white silk, he tore away at the crepe spilling out his collar. He dove at the man in the cramped space, barely catching the robe but enough to yank him to the ground. The asshole tried to sit up, but he shoved the man’s head into the stone. Again and again, he slammed the head down, hearing the sickening cracks of the skulls, feeling the contents of his head oozing out. He didn’t stop until the ruined pulp of the man’s scalp finally tore away from the unrecognizable mess that used to be his head.

  Sniffing with distaste, he stood up, stepping over the mess to continue along the hallway. The secret entrance was probably a one-way deal and it would be suicide to head back into that melee unarmed. He ambled along the dark passage until he reached an iron door.

  Locked.

  With a sigh, he headed back to the carnage and rifled through the robes to extract a key (and a fat coin purse) before heading back to unlock the door.

  It led into a musty undercroft and he damn near yelped when he felt arms lock around his neck.

  If not for the smell, he would have fought back. He welcomed the constriction and the breathlessness of comfort.

  “Cherry,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

  She pulled away and grabbed the hand still sticky with human remains.

  “We can’t stay here. Follow me,” she whispered and, for once, he didn’t care how stupid it sounded.

  “It’s gone,” he told the Maidens as they sat in the dark. It was well past time he did away with the silence. Amber and Reina were content to sit away from the others, having known no dynamic where the others had ever gotten along. They had met up, cleaned away the blood of battle, taken a meal, but nothing had changed. Nothing but a rather big something that it was time he brought up now.

  If they ever needed him, now was the time they should know he was useless.