Ian swallowed. “Yes . . .”
Out of habit, King Edmund picked up his broken gavel. He gave it a fierce look and hurled it aside. “Mister Weatherall . . . you are free to-”
“Your majesty, if I may have just one moment of your time . . .” Lord Ragget interrupted the king.
Ian’s heart raced. What could the Yordician lord have to say now? This matter was done. Up on the dais, Edmund’s frown deepened.
“Yes, Chief Inquisitor? You have something more to add?”
“I do.” From the center of the amphitheater, Lord Ragget slowly walked in a tight circle, taking his time to eye a few of the more prominent members of the city seated in the gallery. “I suggest the extent of the crimes this man has committed against this country and its people are too great to dismiss.”
“We are doing nothing of the sort, Lord Ragget,” the king said. “Mister Weatherall will be charged and tried in Gyunwar.”
“Do you honestly believe a fair trial will be conducted there, my king?” Lord Ragget pressed. “Have you not witnessed the leniency the Gyunwarian judges, especially Mister Weatherall here, have demonstrated when faced with sentencing their own kind? I imagine even if he were found guilty of killing your father, OUR king, he would receive nothing worse than a slap on the wrist. I find this outcome extremely abhorrent.”
A chorus of angry cheers rose throughout the amphitheater. A glare from the king quieted them again.
“Regardless of your feelings and speculation, Lord Ragget, to violate Mister Weatherall’s diplomatic immunity would be tantamount to declaring war on Gyunwar,” the king said.
“And I suggest that it is his very use of diplomatic immunity to avoid punishment for crimes against us that is the real act of war!”
“Don’t be absurd!” Ian cried out. “I am not declaring war on Yordic! All I’ve ever wanted has been peace!”
The king raised a meaty hand. “Quiet your tongue, mister, and let me think.”
“There is nothing-”
“I have ordered you to remain quiet, mister!” the king bellowed.
Pockmark and Mustache loomed on either side of Ian. He fell silent.
The king’s brow furrowed in thought. Lord Ragget paced around the center of the hot amphitheater. Not a drop of sweat touched his brow. Sweat poured off Ian’s face, under his arms and down his back. A strange shadow slid across the floor. Ian glanced at the windows overhead. There was a flash of movement, but it was so quick he couldn’t make out who or what it was. The amphitheater was eerily still.
“Mister Weatherall,” the king broke the silence. “I understand the argument Lord Ragget is making . . . however, I find his reasoning flawed.”
Ian’s jaw dropped. So did Lord Ragget’s. A groan stretched out across the vast courtroom.
“It is perfectly within your right to declare diplomatic immunity,” the king continued, “and to seek perhaps a more favorable court opinion in your native country.”
The groan grew louder. King Edmund’s glare this time did little to quiet it.
“I . . . don’t . . .” Ian stammered. He couldn’t believe he was about to say it, but . . . “Thank you.”
The king waved his thanks away. “I also understand that as king, it is perfectly within my right to declare any treasonous act against the crown an act of war. To that end, I state an agent of the Gyunwarian nation assassinated our Yordician king.” His voice rose, growing louder with each word. “Since we cannot punish this agent, we will punish Gyunwar!”
A triumphant roar erupted throughout the amphitheater.
“Your majesty . . .” Ian tried.
“Currently, hundreds of royal wardens are attempting to quell the riots in Little Ryerton,” the king shouted. “The population in that district is heavily Gyunwarian. If our two countries are at war, I will order my wardens to join with the Yordicians and together they will kill every Gyunwarian they find. Man. Woman. Child. And not just the Gyunwarians within the city, but throughout our great country as well. Tens of thousands of your people will die mister, but not you. No, not you. Your diplomatic immunity will protect you. We will see you safely escorted to the border while we slay every other Gyunwarian we find along the way.”
Ian stared at the fat king. “Is war what you really want?”
“I want justice for my father’s murder. I will have it, one way or another.”
“That isn’t justice. It’s revenge.” Ian shook his head. “And I didn’t kill your father.”
“I saw what you did!” the king said.
“You saw nothing. I am innocent.”
“You dare to call the king a liar?” Lord Ragget roared.
“I dare to speak the truth,” Ian said. “I did not kill the king.”
“You have made your choice for war then?” the king said.
“You are the one making the choice!” Ian said. “Not I!”
“The blood of all those Gyunwarians will be on your hands.” The king gestured for Captain Wolfe Straegar to move front and center. “Go to the Little Ryerton district. See to it that every Gyunwarian there is put to death!”
“Your word is my command,” Straegar said.
“STOP!” Ian bellowed. His hands were trembling. “You can’t kill all those innocent people.”
“This is war, mister,” the king said. “Innocent people die.”
Straegar headed for the door.
“Wait!” Ian shouted. “If I revoke my diplomatic immunity will you spare them all?”
The king opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Lord Ragget stepped in front of him. “Your majesty, the prisoner asks of you so very much and offers you so very little in return.”
“Do you have something else in mind?”
“Mass deportation,” Lord Ragget said. “All Gyunwarians must leave our country immediately or die.”
“Your majesty!” Ian pleaded. “Some of these people have lived their entire lives here. How-?”
“Again, you speak when you should remain quiet,” the king said. “I will spare your people, mister on the condition that all Gyunwarians, be they full-blooded or partial, leave this country by the end of the week and in return you will revoke your claim to diplomatic immunity and face the judgment of this court.”
And there it was. His life versus the lives of thousands. Ian gripped the smooth wooden railing. His knees threatened to buckle. Tears filled his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but his throat constricted. He tried to swallow. His mouth was so dry.
“Well, mister?” the king prodded. “What is your choice?”
“Father . . . no . . .”
Ian closed his eyes. Bowed his head. He knew what the right thing to do was . . . but could he do it? Could he say the words? All his life he’d done the right thing and look where it had led him. To this. It wasn’t fair. He’d lived by the rules. He’d . . .
Failed.
As an ambassador. As a husband. As a father.
Years of peace were on the verge of collapsing. His marriage no longer legally existed. And his son, the future king, had lost not only his crown, but also his name and status. Ian decided Tyran would not lose his life too!
“I revoke my diplomatic immunity,” Ian said.
A blood-thirsty cheer erupted throughout the amphitheater.
“Admit your guilt,” the king shouted, “Plead for mercy and I will grant you a swift and painless death by way of the executioner’s axe.”
Ian shook his head. “I am not guilty!”
“Very well.” The king’s voice sounded grim and severe. “At noon tomorrow, you will be tortured in the Tower Square until you admit your guilt . . . or die!”
The world fell away from Ian. Colors faded. Sounds muted. Somebody touched his arm. His other arm. He vaguely remembered he had to breathe. He was being pushed or pulled. His feet shuffled.
“NO!”
Ian blinked. The colors returned. The cheering roar thundered in his ears. Pockmark and Mustache were on ei
ther side of him, dragging him toward the accused box’s door.
“YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO MY FATHER!”
Ian’s head spun around. Tyran!
Cecily had grabbed Tyran’s arm and was holding him back. Tyran jerked free and ran toward him.
“Stop him!” Cecily shrieked.
Tyran raced down the marble stairs. He was shouting something while he ran.
Mustache let go of Ian and moved to intercept him. Tyran made a feint to go left and darted right, easily slipping past the diving guard.
“Father!” Tyran shouted.
Ian opened his arms.
Pockmark pushed him aside and grabbed the front of Tyran’s shirt. Tyran struggled to free himself, but the guard was strong and easily lifted him off the ground.
“Stop, boy, or you’ll get hurt!” Pockmark snarled. Tyran kicked at him.
“Put him down!” Ian ordered. He reached for the accused box’s door and fumbled with the latch.
“You are all lying!” Tyran shouted, still kicking and flailing. “My father is innocent!”
Pockmark slapped Tyran hard. His head whipped to one side and he went limp in the man’s hands.
A cold, numbing fury overcome Ian. With a primal growl, he ripped the door off its hinges. Hurled it across the room. Barreled out of the box. Dragged the flapping length of chain behind him. Pockmark turned at the noise. His eyes widened. Tyran dropped from his grasp.
Mindless of his injured arm, Ian crashed into the guard. Wrapped him up. Lifted him off his feet. He bore him backwards into the first row of chairs. People scrambled out of the way. Nobles screamed. Chairs broke. The king shouted. Guards converged. Ian’s world narrowed further.
No one hurt his son!
Screams faded. The king quieted. It was just him. And the man who hurt Tyran. And his fists. His fists of stone. A pair of stone hammers. Stone sledges. Swung high and brought low. Over and over. Each blow punctuated with a bone-crunching thump. Or a wet incoherent gurgling. Time slowed. Pockmark’s face changed. Solid features became mere suggestions. Mere suggestions became bloody pulp.
No one hurt his son!
Something nudged the back of his head. It was hard. At one time it might have hurt. He blinked. Returned to the growing red stain beneath him. Something tried to slow his swinging sledges. He shrugged them off. Again, something hard cracked against the top of his skull. This distraction was annoying!
He whipped around. Dozens of faces and dozens of fists crashed into his quiet world.
This would not do!
With a roar, he surged forward. Gathered a couple of heads and crushed them together. Moved to the next man and the next, punching, gouging, biting, hitting, kicking, elbowing . . . It all became a crimson blur. Blood misted the air. Bones broke. His, others, he didn’t know. Or care.
No one hurt his son!
Blinding pain erupted behind his eyes. The world around him dimmed as if nearly all the lamps had burnt out at once. He staggered. Spun about. Lord Ragget. Bloody spear. Rose. Thrusted. Each movement was so slow. He caught the end. Stopped it. Ragget looked surprised. He growled. He wanted the spear. He wanted to hurt Ragget. NOW!
The dim world shaded toward red. He worked his way up the spear until he stood toe-to-toe with the Yordician lord. Violet eyes bore into him. Hot breath. Rage. Ragget screamed something. He didn’t know what. Didn’t care. The spear trembled. Hands grabbed at him from behind. He shrugged them off. They didn’t matter. Only Ragget mattered. He forced Ragget back. Violet eyes widened. Ragget screamed something else. They did not slow. They picked up speed.
He slammed Ragget into the wall. Cracks formed. Pulled back and slammed him again. More cracks. He pressed the spear sideways into his chest. Ribs cracked. Raised it higher. Slam. More cracks. Pressed against his shoulders. Higher. Against his neck. Yes! Arms quivered. Ragget’s red face purpled. Cut off his air. Take off his head!
He threw his head back and whipped it forward. His forehead shattered Ragget’s nose. He did it again. Smashed his cheekbones. Again. And again. Each time he unleashed a bit more of his fury. His rage. Each time he broke something more in Ragget’s face.
No one hurt his son!
Something hard struck him at the base of the skull. His fingers peeled off the spear’s shaft. His arms sank slowly to his sides. His legs folded. The dim red world melted. Ragget’s ruined face blurred. A stark whiteness flashed across the darkness and then it was . . .
No one hurt his son . . .
. . . Gone.
Chapter 3
Lady Cuci Kindacaid watched in horror as Tyran fell. The boy crumpled into a misshapen pile on the marble floor. The blood drained from her face when he didn’t rise again. Was the poor boy even breathing? Ignoring Ian’s onslaught and the mass of guards converging on him, she rose from her chair on the dais and hustled across the floor to where Tyran lay. She knelt beside him, wincing against the pain in her knees, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw his chest rise and fall. He was alive. She glanced up. Lady Cecily was standing a few steps away, unmoved.
“He’s alive, darling,” Cuci said, “though he’ll need a healer.”
Lady Cecily stared at her woodenly.
“Did you hear me?” Cuci asked. “He is alive.”
Lady Cecily nodded. Cuci frowned. Why was she acting so strangely? She seemed almost . . . Cuci blanched at the thought . . . disappointed? She shook her head and returned her attention to Tyran. She didn’t care about the brutal fight playing out nearby; her sole concern was the boy. He was growing into a determined young man, and she felt sorry that he was about to lose his father. She had always cared for Tyran. Unable to have children of her own, she had satisfied a small portion of her maternal needs by watching him mature and offering him guidance whenever he came to her for help. She glanced up at Lady Cecily again. She could not comprehend why the woman refused to join her, to care for her own injured child despite what the king had decreed.
Crack!
Cuci spun about. Lord Ragget had swung the great iron spear like a club and had struck the back of Ian’s head. Ian barely flinched. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Blood and gore and chunks of skin dripped from his red fists. He had rampaged around the courthouse floor ruining scores of guards, crushing them without regard for his own safety. Ragget had trailed after him, smacking him with the spear, but Ian hadn’t seemed to notice.
Until now.
Ian drove the big Yordician lord backwards into the far wall with such force Cuci thought they’d go right through it. She’d heard stories of how some Gyunwarians got when the blood took them, but she’d never witnessed it firsthand. A chill coursed through her body. Ian had shoved the spear up and was throttling Ragget. She glanced around the courtroom. Was anyone going to stop this?
The king . . . he hadn’t moved a step. He was just . . . watching . . .
Ian head butted Ragget over and over pulverizing his face until Cecily rushed forward with a solid piece of wood in her hands, a broken chair leg perhaps, and slammed it against the back of Ian’s neck.
Ian dropped to the floor.
The princess tossed the piece of wood aside and turned to the king. “Your majesty, I have something to say.”
The king shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Cecily gestured vaguely at Ian’s unconscious body. “I’ll need him revived first.”
“No!” The king’s mouth tightened into a stubborn line. “I will not tolerate more of . . . this!” He waved his hand in the air. Cuci followed his gesture. Scores of guards lay scattered about the courtroom. Most were bleeding, and all were suffering some sort of injury. A few hadn’t regained consciousness yet. Some looked like they never would.
“Father, I’m afraid I must insist.”
Cuci noticed the strange look both the king and Lord Ragget was giving the princess . . . Wait! Cuci stared at Lord Ragget. His face was . . . at best . . . mildly bruised! Only mildly bruised?! How was that possible? Where was the blood, the broken bones? M
oments before, it had looked like Ian had caved his face in! How . . .?
Could he secretly be a healer? It would have been news to her. She glanced down at Tyran. A nasty bruise was forming on his cheek. “Your majesty, Tyran will need a healer as well.”
The king made a face as if he had smelled something sour, but with a vague gesture of his hand, one the robed court healers approached Tyran while another crouched beside Ian. Still others went around the room and examined the fallen guards. Cuci joined Cecily on the marble stairs.
“This must be just a dreadful time for you, darling.” She moved to console her, but the princess stiffened in anticipation of being touched. Instead of offering her customary hug, Cuci patted Cecily’s hand and turned away, feeling suddenly embarrassed by their shared moment of awkward silence. When she noticed Tyran stirring, Cuci gratefully returned to his side.
“How are you feeling, darling?”
“Where’s my father?” Tyran asked, looking past her, and struggling to rise.
“The healers are reviving him. Your mother . . .” Cuci cringed, remembering too late the king’s recent decree. “I mean, the Princess wishes to speak with him.”
Tyran’s penetrating stare focused on her. “How can you do this to him?!” he snarled. “I thought you were his friend. My friend too.”
Cuci sank back on her heels. A look of anger and pain, frustration and fear mixed on the young man’s face. “He admitted his guilt, my dear, I’m just . . .”
“I know what he said, and I can imagine what lies have been spread about him.” Tyran leaned forward and held a hand to his chest. “But I know what I feel in here. My father did not commit these crimes, despite what he claims, and if you had listened to him with your heart and not your head, you’d know he was innocent too.” Tyran stood and looked down at her. “I thought for sure you’d understand that.”
And with a shake of his head, Tyran turned and walked away. Cuci stared after him, speechless.
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