He urged his tired horse down the dirt path that ran through the center of the township. Erznia had been the lovechild of his mother and father, built in the months after the creation of humanity and twenty-six years before his birth. They had chosen the location because of its isolation, natural beauty, and proximity to the Queln River. Erznia had originally housed all five hundred youths created to be the wards of House Mori, youth who would soon mature and have families. Over the inevitable march of the years, many in the first and subsequent generations had ventured out of the enchanted forest to build inland townships along the southern edge of the Gods’ Road and the eastern coastline. Only those closest to the Mori bloodline stayed behind, the families who would give birth to some of the prosperous merchants and tradesmen of southern Neldar. The intimacy of the populace had made living here a warm experience, one Vulfram had hoped would never end. He had resisted leaving for many years, staying behind even after his mother moved to Veldaren when he was twenty-seven. Although he had missed her, she’d visited often in the early years, to spend time with her family, and had always been greeted warmly on her return, which had convinced Vulfram it would be the same for him.
It wasn’t. After eight years of sporadic visits, and whispers of what had happened in the delta, the same people who had once viewed Vulfram as a member of their extended family now eyed him with dubious expressions as he rode through the township. They seemed friendly enough, offering smiles and salutations, but he could read the fear and uncertainty in their stares. He was no longer Vulfram Mori, son of Soleh and Ibis, no longer the gentle man who loved children and helped build many of the cottages that dotted the township’s inner sanctum. Now he was Lord Commander Mori, imposing leader of Karak’s Army, come to implement the Divinity’s justice. He thought of Darkfall, the giant broadsword sheathed on his back that would carry out that justice if need be, and decided that the people were right to fear him. The thought of what he might have to do to his own girl wracked him with a special kind of anguish, no matter how unlikely it was she’d done something terrible enough to warrant such a punishment. Sometimes he hated so much that King Vaelor had thrust this title upon him.
Ignoring the suspicious looks, he pulled on the reins and nudged his mare faster. More cottages and larger chalets passed him on either side. They were packed so tightly together that elaborate gardens edged by dogwood trees were grown between them to give the residents a semblance of privacy. The sight of so many homes made Vulfram feel decidedly less at home. It had only been a few months since his last visit, yet over that short span his childhood village seemed to have grown and changed.
Finally Mori Manor appeared before him. The thick pine logs that formed the outside of the manor were stained a deep shade of reddish brown. The door was painted lavender, a color of which his mother had long been fond. It was the largest structure in the township, stretched out so wide it filled nearly all his peripheral vision. Vegetable and fruit gardens dotted the quad, and the peach tree Vulfram had planted when he was ten years old grew to the left of the front walk, looking decidedly taller than the last time he’d laid eyes on it. His heart warmed despite the dire nature of his visit, for at least some things in Erznia would never change.
The front door creaked open as he tethered his horse to the thick post in front of the walk. He glanced up, and there she stood—Yenge, his wife of nineteen years, resplendent in a simple yellow country dress that clung to a body still supple even after birthing and feeding three children. As Vulfram approached, his gaze moved over the curve of her breasts to the soft nub of her chin, the plumpness of her cheeks, and those blue eyes that seemed to glow against the backdrop of her tanned skin. Her hair was dark and uncontrollably wavy, hanging to the middle of her back. She’d been twenty-five when he’d left to fulfill his duty to Karak, and the only sign that she’d aged a day since then were the tired lines that had sprouted from the corners of her eyes. Vulfram felt his insides tremble, thinking of the last night he’d spent in Erznia—the kisses he and Yenge had shared—and smiled.
Yenge didn’t return his smile. Her expression was nervous as she scraped her teeth against her lower lip. He hadn’t seen her this way since they’d discovered problems with the health of their youngest child, Caleigh, in the hours after the girl’s birth.
His hands found hers as he climbed the steps. There were tears in her eyes. She didn’t say a word to him as he gently placed his lips against hers; her response was to kiss him back slowly and then wrap her arms around him.
“I’ve missed you,” Yenge said as the kiss ended.
“As have I you,” he whispered. He tipped his shaved head so that it rested in the nape of her neck. She smelled of honey and flour. “Did you receive my letter?”
“I did, yesterday.”
“And you told the Magister that I was coming?”
Her eyes dropped. She sniffled but kept her composure. “Yes, Magister Wentner is in the courtyard with the offenders…and others.”
He stepped back. “Offenders? Lyana was not alone when she broke Karak’s law?”
“No, my love. There is another. Kristof Renson. The boy’s father and mother await you as well.”
“Kristof? The boy is what—fourteen? What could these two have done to draw the ire of the Magister worthy of a Minister’s delegate?”
Yenge sniffled again. “I’ve been told not to tell you, my love. I’m truly sorry.”
“Wentner’s instructions?”
Her downcast eyes were answer enough. Vulfram grunted, furious the Magister hadn’t thought to contact him personally regarding the matter. He was the girl’s father, for Karak’s sake, as well as Lord Commander and one of the Divinity’s most loyal servants. If anyone should have been trusted, it was he.
The interior of the manor looked much like he remembered it, with its open rooms, rustic wood floor, and log walls. Lavish furniture filled the vast spaces, gifts bestowed on his family by the greatest craftsmen in Neldar. The candelabras placed in each crevasse were ornate creations, looping rods of silver and gold that held six candles apiece. But Vulfram forgot them even as he saw them. Nothing could remain on his mind except his daughter.
He stormed through the arched portal cut into the limestone wall of the interior square of the manor, the only part of the dwelling not made of felled trees. The courtyard was vast—two hundred feet in either direction—and surrounded on all by sides by four thick walls. When he was a boy, Vulfram played in this open space with Kayne and Lilah, pretending to fight dragons, giants, and demons from the underworld, thrusting wooden swords at his brother and sister lions while they leapt around him.
Now, all that youthful innocence of the courtyard was gone. In its place were a great many people milling about, all wearing dire expressions. He saw his brother Ulric’s wife, Dimona, and her three children. Here also was his other brother, Oris, former servant of the City Watch under Vulfram, his lower jaw and neck rippling with red scar tissue, an injury from when he’d rescued three whores trapped in a burning brothel. Oris’s wife, Ebbe, a woman with skin as tan as Yenge’s and tightly knotted hair, stood at her husband’s side. She was tall and proud, exuding strength and an intensity of faith. Their two children huddled behind her flowing sarong, which was painted with sunflowers. To their right was Broward Renson, young Kristof’s grandfather, born on the same day as Vulfram; they had been best friends since they were toddlers playing at being adults, with fake wine to drink and blunted sticks for spears. The man looked much older than Vulfram, carrying the weight of all his sixty-seven years on his broad shoulders. Broward’s son, Bracken, stood next to him, along with Bracken’s wife, Penelope. Every member of the Renson family looked tense and fidgety, Bracken in particular. The man chewed on his fingernails as if they were kernels of sweet corn.
Beyond the gathered crowd knelt two young people, shackled to a concrete slab. Vulfram’s heart dropped when he saw Lyana, his precious little daughter. Just like the town, she seemed to have grown s
o much since last he saw her. She looked almost an adult, as stunning as her mother, possessing the same blue eyes and untamable hair. But instead of a beautiful, carefree girl, she was presented to him as a broken woman, her lips and cheeks painted like those of a whore. She was dressed in a plain canvas kirtle—prisoner’s attire—that was covered with splotches of dirt. Beside her knelt Kristof, his sandy hair as filthy as straw in a horse’s pen, his eyes closed and his hands clenched before him as his whole body shivered. His kirtle, nearly identical to Lyana’s, was coated with fresh, glistening blood.
Only shock and an iron will forged over decades kept Vulfram from drawing Darkfall and thrusting its blade through the heart of whoever dared insult his daughter in such a way.
“By the order of Karak, all kneel in the presence of the Lord Commander!”
Vulfram turned at the sound of his son’s voice, while the rest of those in attendance bowed on a single knee. Alexander Mori, eighteen and looking strong as an ox in his stained riding leathers, escorted his youngest sister, Caleigh, down the steps and into the yard. Behind them walked Magister Wentner, a man looking every bit his eighty years, with a sickly frame, a turkey-like wattle for a neck, and eyes reduced to a haunting gray by age. Alexander stared at his father, jaw unyielding, and it seemed as though his strength were passed along to his sister, for Caleigh kept her expression as hard as the limestone that made up the house’s inner walls. As far back as Vulfram could remember, his youngest would startle at the buzz of an insect whizzing by her ear. He couldn’t help but feel a queer sort of pride at the strength she now displayed.
The magister in his deep black robes stepped toward him, while his children took their places beside their mother. Wentner offered him a frail bow, the sight of which only enhanced Vulfram’s rage. This is the man who would make my daughter up as a whore, this bastard, years past his prime?
“What’s the meaning of this?” Vulfram said with a growl. “What in Karak’s name makes you think yourself justified in humiliating my daughter this way, chaining these children up like common felons?”
The magister didn’t flinch at his tone, and when he gazed up at Vulfram his gray eyes dripped with frost.
“The law is direct and strict, Lord Commander,” the magister said. “When found guilty, the prisoners will be presented before the bringers of justice with appearances befitting their crimes.”
Vulfram’s blood boiled. “What crimes have they been found guilty of? And who deemed themselves worthy to determine such guilt?”
“I found them guilty, Lord Commander,” said Wentner, the slightest scowl appearing on his withered visage. “I am the Magister of Erznia, and by decree of Highest Crestwell, it is the magister’s duty to adjudicate any accused crimes of blasphemy before awaiting a delegate of the Inner Sanctum to serve punishment.” He pointed a finger at the two chained youngsters. “These two have been accused of infanticide, the utmost crime against our god and his gift of life.”
Lyana and Kristof both began weeping, and the anger broiling inside Vulfram was replaced by a jolt of shock.
“That cannot be,” he said, softly. “They are only children.”
“They ceased to be children the moment they consummated their attraction,” said Wentner. “And they became criminals once they performed the unspeakable.”
“It’s not true!” shouted Lyana.
One of the magister’s gnarled hands shot out, lashing Lyana’s painted cheek. Her head snapped to the side, and a string of bloody spittle flew from her lips.
“Silence,” the magister said. “The convicted shall speak only when spoken to.”
The magister’s hand rose again, but this time Vulfram caught it. The two men stared eye to eye, each one challenging the other. Wentner was a representative of their deity, and it would be blasphemy for Vulfram to supersede his granted authority. But Lyana was also Vulfram’s child, and Wentner clearly saw the death that awaited him if he pressed Vulfram too far.
After taking a deep breath and releasing Wentner’s hand, Vulfram asked for the proof of their crimes. In answer, the magister reached a hand into his robe and withdrew a small burlap sack. From the sack he removed a small wooden vial and an article of clothing. Holding up the vial he said, “Lyana Mori was discovered moaning in pain by her brother Alexander thirteen days ago. Beside her, on her bedpost, was this vial. It was empty, but it still carries the scent of oil of crim.”
He handed the vial to Vulfram, who sniffed the opened top. The bitter and unmistakable stench of crim oil, an extract taken from the base stems of crimleaf, assaulted his nostrils. Crim oil was a powerful tonic traditionally used to treat cattle when they fell ill with infection. The oil caused massive internal hemorrhaging while obliterating whatever sickness had struck the bovine. It was rarely used on humans, and never if the victim was pregnant, due to the danger to the growing babe. That fact alone made it a popular—and highly illegal—commodity that was sold only in the darkest of back alleys.
His mind spun as Magister Wentner handed him the article of clothing.
“This was the garment the offender was wearing on the morning she was found. Take a look at it, Lord Commander. Take a good look.”
Vulfram held the garment with shaking fingers. It was a satin nightdress, one he had given Yenge many years before as a gift. It was soft and pink, colored using dye made from roses that grew in the Manor’s gardens. As it fell open in his hands, he saw the shade grew darker and darker the farther down the garment he looked, until it was a deep red tinted with orange down at the hemline. He crinkled the nightdress in both fists and brought it to his nose. He smelled the blood, along with something that smelled oddly sharp, like vinegar. He dropped the garment to the ground and wiped at his nose.
“What you just smelled,” said Wentner, “is all that remains of your grandchild.”
Vulfram’s stared at his daughter, tears pouring down her cheeks in torrents while she shook her head. It felt as if the entire world stood still, and there was only Vulfram, Lyana, and the vile Wentner.
“Please, Father!” the girl screamed.
Magister Wentner reached back to slap her again, but thought better of it when he caught Vulfram’s glare.
“And what of the boy?” Vulfram asked. “What is he accused of?”
“He supplied the oil, Lord Commander,” replied Wentner, slowly lowering his hand. “We found four more vials hidden inside his mattress.”
“Is that true?”
Kristof didn’t answer; he simply dropped his head, closed his eyes, and wept.
Alexander strode forward. “It is true, Lord Commander. I discovered the vials myself when I went to question Bracken Renson on the whereabouts of his son.”
“You little shit!”
Bracken Renson barreled full steam at Alexander, a club held high to strike. In a single movement, Alexander shielded his sister and mother with one hand and unsheathed his sword with the other. Bracken flung aside Magister Wentner, the muscles in his face tensed to the point of snapping. His club swung, ramming into Alexander’s raised sword. The two shoved against one another, the sword buried deep into the thick wood of the club. His shock finally abated, Vulfram grabbed the collar of Bracken’s tunic and yanked hard enough to send the father of the convicted boy thudding to the ground. The attached sword and club skittered off to the side. Oris rushed in, a meaty fist drawn back, but Vulfram held his scarred brother at bay with a single glance. Alexander tried to advance on Bracken, but Vulfram stood in the way, feeling like a bull as he breathed heavily through his nose.
“Get Yenge and Caleigh out of here,” he told Alexander, who opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded in respect. As his son led the girls away, Vulfram let out a cry as a sharp heel connected with his shin.
“Enough of this!” he shouted, whirling around and planting a boot on Bracken’s chest.
“He’s…my…son!” shouted Bracken, thrashing beneath the weight.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder. In
his wrath Vulfram turned with fist at ready, but when he caught sight of graying hair and sad brown eyes, he let his arm drop. Broward Renson stood there, staring down at his eldest boy.
“I apologize for his actions,” the old man said, without once looking in Vulfram’s direction. He reached down and grabbed Bracken’s hand. Vulfram removed his foot, allowing his old friend to help the man to his feet. Bracken huffed and puffed while the two walked back to their place of waiting.
His blood still racing, Vulfram looked from the magister to the accused children, to Alexander and Yenge, who lingered just inside the doorway, cowering near the shadows as if they didn’t want to be seen. Vulfram shook his head and approached Lyana, kneeling before her, taking her chin in one hand and wiping away her tears with the other.
“Tell me, child,” he whispered. He fought to keep his hand still, to keep his jaw from trembling. “What they say…is it true?”
It broke his heart the way she looked at him, quivering in fear as if he were a monstrous stranger. Even when he lowered his voice to the levels he had used to tell her stories when she was a young child, her fear never left her. Was he that kind father no longer? Had that man become a distant memory? Was he now just a stranger arriving in their midst to pass judgment?
“Be honest, Lyana,” he said. “Karak is merciful to the truthful. You have nothing to fear, not from me. Just tell me the truth. Is the magister right?”
Lyana met his eyes, looked away, and then nodded.
Dawn of Swords Page 14