by Lakshman, V.
And blood shall be the ink
by which our deeds are written.”
- Jebida Naserith, Should I Fall
Arch-captain Jarl Krayten, Circinate of the Fourth Order, had obeyed the summons immediately. Because the impromptu raid had been planned near his own village of Trellis, just a day’s ride west of Forever, he’d been selected to lead the men. It had not been solely for that reason, his wife had assured him. The arch-captain had been successfully raiding for almost fifteen years, bringing many to the good king’s justice. Now, eyes beaming with pride, she and their two daughters had seen their father off as he rode west with his escort.
Krayten had not delayed, making quickly along the horse trail, his stallion so familiar with the way that he could afford to banter with the men. He did not know them and was surprised that his second, Captain Caldwell, had not been present at the summons. No matter, he thought, likely Marcus would meet him at their destination.
“You hail from Deeplook?” he inquired of the sergeant on his right.
The man was hard-bitten, his armor forged in the style of blackened steel favored by the new kingsmarks. It gave the Magehunters a cleaner, more deadly look. The martial simplicity was a nice departure from the ornate, silver-colored armor he still wore. New suits were more than six months’ pay, too much for a man nearing retirement.
He was getting older, and the calls to raid were coming less frequently, making earning any extra coin difficult. Frivolous spending was not on his list of priorities, no matter how nice the armor might look. Still, it was magnificent to see his Magehunters again.
The man spit to one side, then said, “You heard of the break there?”
Krayten nodded back. “Aye. A hundred of the scum escaping into the night. Whoever was responsible should be hanged.”
The man raised an eyebrow at that,. “The Kingsmark said we’ll have that opportunity, mi’lord.”
The arch-captain laughed and said, “I’m no lord, Sergeant. Born in Trellis and worked my way up from lowly puke. Made rank the day my squad took a village in Deeplook, which was why I asked.” He winked at the man. “Same day, different day.”
“Fancy house you got back there,” another man quipped, “if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
Krayten turned and said over his shoulder, “And you’ll have the same. Try a decade and a half of hunting. Capturing these filth pays well, soldier.”
There wasn’t any answer and he didn’t expect one. These men seldom found themselves with arch-captains willing to talk to the enlisted, and surely this was more than a treat for them. That he would be willing to speak to them as equals only reinforced his faith of his own unerring leadership, and these men were likely as much in awe as they were appreciative of his kindness and honesty.
He turned back to the first and offered, “I’ll ask the Kingsmark if you and your men can join the raid, Sergeant.” He thought adding the man’s rank set a perfect tone to his magnanimous gesture. It wasn’t often that men-at-arms joined a well-established unit like his, but his men could keep them from mucking things up.
“We would be honored, my lord,” the sergeant replied, his eyes on the trail before them.
“What of Trellis?” one wanted to know.
“Oh, the town was small enough,” he’d replied, “but nice to farm.” He thought for a moment then said, “The inn and foundry are the best around, and that includes the flea-bitten Golden Lion in Forever.” He said this with authority, knowing the property in Forever belonged to that fat-pursed Olivier, a man who seemed focused on ruining his small but growing business in Trellis.
“Heard you put it up,” another said, meaning his inn, the Butter and Iron.
“Aye, raised by my own hands. The lordstone is right in the front,” he’d said with some pride. “No expense spared for the guests.” He looked back at the men and in a moment of equal parts bravado and generosity said, “A free night’s stay for each of you, when you’re next in Trellis.”
The men thanked him as the trail gave way to open fields and they kicked their horses into a faster walk. They made good time, their horses picking their way as Krayten enjoined them with story after story of his inn and foundry, the raids on suspected villages, and victories snatched from Fate’s dice.
Occasionally, one of the men would ask a question, to which he’d give them a storied reply. Most centered on the way in which these mages escaped, if ever. True, they were cunning, but the collars were proof against their deceit. Once in place, the test of removal was infallible, a surefire way of separating those with wickedness from the pure and faithful. Krayten made the sign of the circle and kissed it when he said that, overcome a bit with his faith in the One.
The morning and conversation gave way to afternoon and silence. All that had to be said had been said, and these men now seemed intent on joining their brothers as soon as possible. Krayten could appreciate that, and kept pace as the sergeant arrowed his mount for a distant hill.
Squinting, Krayten could make out a flag and a small hill fort hastily erected as the staging area for this raid. It was made of timbered walls with two towers framing the ends of a simple gate. Now that their destination was in sight it seemed time flew as they quickly made their way to it and into the small enclosed stable yard, only to be met by squires for the men and farriers for the mounts in need of any special attention.
After dismounting and handing the reins over to a waiting yeoman, the sergeant turned to Arch-captain Krayten and said, “This way, sir.” He pointed to a large tent erected in the central area of the walled fort.
Krayten shook one boot that had sunk into a muddy pit, then stepped forward to follow the sergeant. They made their way past hundreds of black-armored men-at-arms in various stages of readiness, though all were armed. His escorts moved up to either side, directing him through the camp until he stood before the main entrance with guards flanking either side.
These saluted fist to chest before pulling back the tent curtains and ushering the captain in. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom with the bright spear of light from the ceiling pooling at its center, he could pick out the pennant of the commanding officer: a red gryphon clutching a yellow snake on a black field… the simple fact took a moment to register. The grand inquisitor?
Then a hammer-like fist hit him in the back of his unarmored head, blasting stars across his vision. What felt like a booted foot doubled him over with a kick to his midsection and they were upon him. He was pummeled from all sides as dozens joined in, blows raining down with gauntleted fists and short cudgels. He heard himself whimper and moan like an animal and at one point during the beating he felt a click as something was placed around his neck, but there was no respite no matter how much he begged. They continued without mercy until a final kick to the bridge of his nose sent him sprawling and unconscious.
* * * * *
When he awoke, he found himself stripped of his armor and kneeling, trussed up with his hands tied behind his back and to his ankles. Someone splashed a ladle of cold water in his face, causing him to sputter to full consciousness. That brought with it a deluge of pain. Clearly he had been beaten… but by who and when was still hazy. The last clear memory he had was talking to that sergeant about his inn during their glorious afternoon ride.
“Glad you could join us, Krayten,” a woman’s voice said.
He looked up and was shocked to see the black pennant of the grand inquisitor, though he did not know this wasn’t the first time. That memory had been taken from him by fist and rod, along with some teeth, a broken arm, and ribs. He shook his head carefully to clear his eyes, wincing as even that slight motion sent a lightning lance of pain through his arm and body.
“What am I doing here?” he mumbled through a shattered mouth.
“You stand accused, Arch-captain,” The woman moved into view, inspecting his injuries, then added, “For a great many things.”
“Accused? For what?” he demanded hoarsely.
T
he woman looked to the right and nodded. From the shadows stepped forward his second, Captain Marcus Caldwell, who unrolled a parchment and prepared to read.
Krayten drew in an involuntary breath, not prepared for the sight. “What—?”
“You’ll wait to hear your crimes before speaking. Unless you admit your guilt and submit to summary judgment?” she said, her eyes glinting dangerously.
He knew what that meant and shook his head, remaining silent.
“Arch-captain Jarl Krayten, you stand accused of magecraft and conspiring, aiding, and abetting those brought before the King’s Justice.” Captain Caldwell read the accusations without emotion, his eyes never meeting his former commander’s own.
At first, Krayten thought it was pity, Caldwell must’ve been forced. Then their eyes met for the briefest of moments and in that mere glance he knew the truth. His second did not meet his gaze because of shame. The man believed these charges. His heart sank, but part of him knew he’d be dead already if they’d wanted. Something stayed their hand.
“You’ve been clever, keeping your ill-gotten gains carefully hidden.”
“What are you talking about?” he said thickly through split lips.
“We were tipped off to your actions, intercepting hidden communiqués.” At her command a box was brought forth and upended. From it spilled hundreds of letters.
“Are my marks on them? What of my seal?” he demanded hotly, trying to free his hand with his ring seal on it to show them. The immediate bolt of pain almost made him swoon as his good arm pulled on the broken one.
“Oh, none are signed by you.” She smiled, but her eyes remained flat and emotionless.
“Then why—?”
“Who signs their name to documents that would implicate them? You’re too clever for that, but it did arouse our suspicion.” She paused, then motioned to Captain Caldwell.
“For the past year there has been a discrepancy between what your men have reported taken from these villages and what has been entered into the ledgers at the King’s Vault.” He looked back at the grand inquisitor, who stepped back into Krayten’s view.
“These discrepancies have been small, nothing anyone would notice. However, the amounts when added together come to a very exact number. One of the niceties of formal accounting.”
“Search my house! You’ll find nothing, for I have done nothing!” he spat.
“You’re far more clever than your average thief, Arch-captain. Why keep coin on your person that would incriminate you? Why keep coin at all? Mayhap you thought you could hide it in some other form… a retirement bonus, perhaps?” She motioned to another group of men, who lugged up the lordstone from his inn.
“Recognize this?”
Krayten didn’t have to say anything. His name and the year the Butter and Iron had been built had been carved upon it.
“What do you think we found below it?” the woman inquired.
When he didn’t answer the men dragged two heavy clay crocks in front of him. They looked fired in a kiln, no doubt, they believed, in his foundry. The grand inquisitor motioned and one man smashed the crocks with a hammer. The clay broke, revealing white dust beneath which was the yellow glint of gold.
“Would you believe that the weight of these two are slightly over the weight of the thousand Imperials stolen over the past year? Quite a coincidence.”
“Slightly over? Then this make no sense.”
“Slightly because of the clay.”
A man took the two crocks and shattered the rest of the clay off. Then he waited while others loaded the metal onto a scale. When the amount came up, everyone in the room made a sound. Worse, the cursory inspection revealed faces that showed disappointed, as if he’d already been proven guilty.
“I’ve been set up. I’d never steal from my king.”
“I’ve thought of that… and would ask if your men would vouch for you.”
Without waiting for an answer the grand inquisitor motioned and a dozen more men were brought in, each secured with chains and collars around the neck. With a start, Krayten realized he too wore a torc that nullified magic as if he consorted with those filth with Talent! He could not believe it.
He looked at the other accused and realized that some of these men hadn’t been heard from in years, not since some of his first raids. The grand inquisitor moved toward them. At her command, they were forced to their knees and secured so that their chains kept their hands locked to their ankles from behind.
As he got a better look, it was clear these men had been tortured. Something about them nagged at him, a memory or a nuance of some common thread that wound this group of men together. What had it been? He searched their faces, finally coming to rest on one… Dekres… was that his name? He hadn’t seen Dekres for almost ten years, back during his raids on the villages near Sunhold. The man had left the Magehunters shortly after that, so what was he doing here now?
“Tell me…” The grand inquisitor stood in front of one of the men whose eye was swollen shut. “Did you ever see this man steal Imperials or other coin from the raids?”
“Mercy…” the man begged, sobbing.
“Tell me,” she continued, kneeling and grasping his chin then slowly forcing the man to look at Krayten with his one good eye, “did this man steal?”
The man blubbered, spittle falling from his mouth in a long, elastic drool, then he nodded. “Yes, he stole! Please let my family go.”
Family? Krayten had a sinking feeling. If the man’s family were being held he’d say anything to save them.
“Take him away, he has fulfilled his duty.” The grand inquisitor turned to the others and said, “And you will too if you wish your One Father’s mercy.”
That was all it took. All the men fell over themselves to accuse him. The betrayal was bitter and unending, continuing even as they were dragged out of the tent to whatever fate they had been promised.
The grand inquisitor looked back at Krayten, her lips pursed in thought. Then she moved closer to him and said, “With all this, Arch-captain, you have still given the crown years of good service. Therefore, I give you one last way to redeem yourself.”
Krayten had collapsed in upon himself when the men turned, and he was unprepared for her words. He looked up, his jaw grinding from the damage of the beating but working nonetheless as he said, “I will prove myself in any way you ask.”
“Remove the collar and only you will go to the gallows. Fail, and your family will join your punishment.” The grand inquisitor bowed once and he could feel his hands being unshackled enough to reach his neck and the Galadine torc he knew so well.
Sudden hope flared. The torc! He’d never had any filth of magic in his blood. He knew that. Removing it would at least save his family and perhaps with that small victory he could manage to convince the grand inquisitor for a life of imprisonment. Perhaps this one thing would be a chink in the armor of evidence and help him unravel the other lies being said about him.
He pulled himself to his knees and reached up, a small smile twisting itself through his broken jaw despite the pain. He knew the release like his own hand and in a moment he’d be free.
Just as his hands reached the collar he felt two small taps on his wrists. From those taps a deadness spread, numbing his hands and fingers. What just happened?
He screamed, then began desperately clawing at the torc, but his fingers did not obey. Instead they flopped helplessly, unable to apply any pressure to the release mechanism. This can’t be happening, was his only thought, this can’t be. He managed to get a finger stuck under the top of the collar and pulled until he heard a pop. Although there was no pain he knew he’d dislocated his finger.
He fell forward, sobbing. “I know I can! Give me a chance!”
“I did.” It was the only words the grand inquisitor said before nodding to her men, who closed in, picking up the arch-captain and dragging him out into the open under skies that were swollen and gray. There they threw him down as if
merely touching him was an affront to their dignity.
His family was there and ran forward to hug him, crying piteously. They were quickly grabbed and dragged away to join the men who now swung from gibbets, jerking as they slowly choked to death. The hangman had not done the customary job of letting the fall break the neck. Instead he’d attached the noose and pulled them up, tying the ropes off. For these men, these proven thieves in the eyes of the crown, death was slow and painful.
Once each had stopped kicking, they had been speared through the heart and throat then bled like pigs before being cut down and dragged away. The grand inquisitor did not waste a moment, but had Krayten kneel and watch as his family suffered the same fate as his conspirators.
The arch-captain could watch no more and barely felt it as he too was dragged to the gibbet and the noose was dropped over his neck. He felt the biting rope as three men dragged his body up. A rushing sound, like waves hitting the beach, roared in his ears. He was not quite dead when he felt the stab, ice-cold, of a spear into his heart and another into his neck.
Then, he felt nothing at all.
* * * * *
Silbane waited patiently in Kisan’s empty quarters. The initiate had been gone, disappearing again for a few days, as she was wont to do since coming to the Isle some ten years ago. When the brown robed girl came into the room he coughed and dropped the illusion that had hid him from view, satisfied by her whirl and wide-eyed stare that his presence had been undetected. It was no small feat given the precociousness of his star pupil.
When she saw who it was, she cocked her head and said, “Sleeping here again?”
“You’ve never said no…”
She sighed then said, “Sorry… What do you want?”
“Reports have come that there has been a culling within the Magehunter ranks.”
The young woman shrugged, then walked past the chair Silbane reclined upon and unslung her travel pack. “Anything specific?”
Silbane raised an eyebrow at that. “Actually, yes. Jarl Krayten was accused of thievery and magecraft and executed along with his family. Strangely, so were all the men who raided your village near Sunhold.”