Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial Read online

  Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial

  Tales of tongues unknown

  Translated by John Klobucher

  (he wrote it too, but don’t tell anyone and spoil the fun)

  Copyright 2015 John Klobucher

  Smashwords Edition

  Visit John Klobucher’s author page at Smashwords.com

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  Cover art by John Klobucher

  Table of Contents

  Episode 8 ~ The Trial

  About the Author

  Episode 8 ~ The Trial

  Ho-man knew his duty.

  “Hear ye, hear ye! Your attention please… The court of the Keep is now in session. People — prepare for judgment day!”

  The servants scurried to whisk away any sign, every crumb from their feeding frenzy. Juxtyn Tymbly stopped to sop up the last drops of sweet hospitality.

  The battle tent was suddenly spartan.

  Fyryx the Redder Than Ever glared impatiently until they were done. Then he donned a tall leather judge’s hat and spat out his instructions.

  “Treasured guardsmen, honored eldest — I trust you’ve left room for dessert! Just be prepared for something sour, not sugar-coated. Bitter truth…” He sneered at the near wall lined with folk. “For there’s hard evidence, more than a trace of toxin in our blood again, an old familiar taste of poison spoiling our body politic, friends. Worse than arsenic spiked with mace or nightshade laced with angel’s bane. A venom I dreamed was finally gone…” His fiery eyes lit briefly on Minyon. “And not the spark of a new sedition, fueling a fevered anarchy…”

  He paused, though only long enough to gnash his teeth and look away. Then he shook as if trying to stir from a nightmare or force a rude awakening.

  “But we’ll nip it in the bud, I promise — rip out this weed by its very roots. The antidote is in our court… a medicine called punishment.”

  The justice’s icy stare caught the stranger.

  “No better balm than a Guard at arms, or salve as sure as the mud of our pit. It can cure outbreaks of crime in no time, and we’ll prove it once again.”

  All of a sudden a long furry vine rained down from the smoke clouds overhead, unfurled from the billowing ceiling dome. At the end, a heavy slab of headstone hung from a twisted hangman’s noose.

  “Let’s get down to business,” growled Fyryx. “I’ve had my fill of this whole song and dance.”

  He pulled a blade from behind his hassock. “I’m cutting the chord at last!”

  And he swung.

  The dead weight was decapitated and fell to the ground with a loud, round thud. The rope tied up to the roof flew off and the tent’s great dome blew open wide.

  Then all it took was a gust of wind to clear the hall of its lyrical air, to kill its soundtrack, the chamber’s music. Everything left was cut and dried — plain as day, black and white, simple as that.

  The brother Treasuror squinted at the high noon sun now pouring in. “Welcome to my new arena, where brutal truth is the only game. Look around. You won’t find a shadow of doubt here. Not one shade of gray. No rhyme, just reason.”

  He pointed his ironwood sword to the heavens. “Mark this as the day the muses died.”

  Ho-man shrugged but followed orders, faithfully noting the dark decree. Then he added “That’ll be the day” at the bottom of his diary.

  When he ran out of leaf he turned over a new one. And…

  “Oh boy!”

  He looked in disbelief. Something within the log book shook him. “It’s a sign or prophecy.”

  Then he remembered his tall teen friend. “Psst, hey buddy…”

  The big bopper listened.

  “Ever reversed a lyric curse? Defended against dark arts and crafts? I was just hoping with your lucky charms, you might sport a magician’s hat.”

  “Sorry, left that and my wand at home. The closest to magic I come is a spell-check.”

  “Close enough! This spells conundrum. A riddle, Tom Cat. Take a look…”

  Ho-man ripped a page from his notebook and thrust it at the stunned John Cap. The stranger squinted at it a moment, mapping its bold runes in his mind.

  Meantime the clerk droned on in the background, offering answers of his own. “I think it’s a forecast of what’s to come — a darkness on the edge of town where poet is outlaw and bard’s desperado.”

  Odd, but John Cap had it too, the sickening feeling of climate change. A sense that the seasons had slipped out of rhythm. A fear that their meter was out of time.

  The torn leaf was written in deep dark plum ink, a purple prose almost familiar to him. He read it out loud like an old incantation…

  ~ ~ ~

  THIS VERSE LEFT

  INTENTIONALLY

  BLANK

  ~ ~ ~

  Clang!

  Ka-clang!!

  The noise came from a discarded blade cascading off the pillowstones.

  Fyryx clapped his hands two times. “Fetch the leaver.”

  His voice was cold.

  At the back of the hall, on the far wall next to his vacant rest room, a huge but hidden doorflap was suddenly split and violently thrown aside. Through the breach marched a company of fourteen — two six-packs of leathery plainsmen with cross-pikes, one tender-looking lad in shackles, and the fleshy Finder himself, Bylo Hamyx. The hot, bothered pit bull led from behind, his gnarliest finger pointing the way.

  “Head for the ring of truth, men. We’ll dump this haul and collect our due!” Then he added, spitful and spiteful as ever, “Long as the scales o’ justice aren’t rigged…”

  “Yo Bylo!”

  “Aye Finder!”

  His posse cheered, waving their weapons overhead.

  “Bounty or mutiny, we don’t care…”

  And the motley crew grinned. They were armed to the teeth. A dirty dozen spoiling to fight.

  They took it out on their prisoner.

  Despite the young man’s elvish size, the plainsmen had him bound in coils of thick, coarse grapple rope fit for a troll. Four of the swarthiest towed him hard, staggered or dragged on his buckled knees. His slight body slumped, almost limp. He was sinking.

  “Poor kid’s strung up like a puppet,” John Cap muttered to himself. His blue eyes were full of sympathy. “Geez… And a punching bag by the looks of that mug…”

  A sudden whoosh interrupted him.

  Crack!

  The sound of a bull whip split the air. Most of the onlookers jumped in surprise as its thorn tip snapped at the youth’s bowed head, no more than a lash from his half-closed lids.

  The whipping boy didn’t even flinch.

  The oldest of Bylo’s bone collectors reached for the short, curved pike at his side and pressed its point to the leaver’s neck. “Giddy-up pony er you’ll be a gelding. We’s got us a reward ta get.”

  But he could have cursed till his voice was hoarse. The yearling was still hearing none of it. And by now the reason was painfully clear.

  The handsome had been beaten out of him, swollen and bloodied beyond recognition. An angelic face turned apocalyptic. Lip split and red. Eyes black and blue.

  Sons of anarchy, brothers grim, the riders had been rough on him alr
eady. There was worse to come.

  Bylo barked at his privateers. “Halt!” They’d just made center court, which was staked out by the strangers’ sword. “Looks like tusk marks the spot,” he sneered. “Let’s give ‘em their little treasure back.”

  The fore men stopped at the odd white blade protruding from the earthen floor. They puzzled a moment at the thing then dropped their captive aside it.

  “Mmmph.”

  His knees, both skinned and bruised, hit the dirt as the snake-like ropes around him recoiled. He was untied yet still in chains.

  Bylo plowed his way ahead, netting a reeling rod as he went from one of the twelve angry men in his crew. Soon he reached their catch and circled. He poked at the youngster, inspecting him.

  “Been a while since we’d caught us one of these,” the bloodhound howled for all to hear. “And look how puny — we near threw him back!”

  He prodded the boy even harder with the big stick in his mangy paws. It didn’t take much to tip him over.

  Thump.

  He curled up on the floor. Berthed like a baby. Pitifully fetal.

  “No dirt-napping yet,” the Finder spat at him. “Not till me and my men get paid.”

  By reflex the kid tried to pull his limbs in tighter, to turtle. His handcuffs stopped him. The man-size manacles barely fit and made him look practically childish.

  “Pew!”

  Bylo suddenly sniffed the air and wrinkled his bulbous crimson nose.

  “Flea, fly, foe, scum! I smell the mud of a leaver’s run…”

  The suspect was coated in tar and muck that was evidence of his westward escape route, a residue of the vast, foul swamplands. It gave off an epic kind of stench, odors of magnitude worse than sulphur.

  Bylo spewed a phlegm of legend. “You’ll pay for making us suffer your stink.”

  He lifted his jackboot over the fall guy. “Best time to kick a man, men — when he’s down!”

  But then a girl or young woman cried out. She tried to warn him. “Trey! Trey…”

  Her voice worked like a magic elixir.

  The young man’s eyes popped open wide to shine in the sunlight, deep dark brown. And he spun far enough from Bylo’s heel to topple the kingpin, who went reeling.

  All of the Guard but for dour Syar-ull had a bellicose laugh at the Finder’s expense. They hooted again when his buttocks hit pay dirt.

  He glowed an apoplectic red.

  The young man didn’t have to look. He took a long breath and exhaled her name. “Xo…” He knew her lilt like music.

  Somehow that filled him with the strength he needed to clamber to his feet. He threw back his tangle of chestnut curls and smiled.

  It seemed like he’d never been broken.

  “Order in the court!” roared Fyryx.

  He waited for silence with knitted brow.

  The Guard peeped a sheepish “Sir my sir.”

  “As you were.

  “Clerk Havvum! Read the charges.”

  Ho-man stepped forward, hand stuffed in his pocket and fishing for something. “Now where did that go…

  “Uh-oh,” he muttered toward John Cap.

  “Is there a problem, clerk?” questioned Fyryx.

  “Oh, no your honor. No problem at all. Just… finding my mojo… to do this justice…”

  “Mojo or no, Homeboy — just hurry up.”

  The notary nodded, “Got it judge,” and pinched a finger and thumb to his lips. Then he whistled a call so shrill that John Cap tipped his head and cringed.

  Less than an instant later something answered from the open sky. It squawked a distant “Awk! Awk!” but was overhead in nothing flat.

  The unidentified flying object swooped into the courtyard and dive-bombed Ho-man. The clerk caught its payload, a stone, in one hand.

  He found the hole to its hollow center and pulled out the note he’d been looking for.

  “Bingo!”

  Meanwhile the bombardier touched down for a two-point landing on Ho-man’s mullet, making an airfield of his hair.

  “Awk! Awk!” the flyer crowed.

  Ho-man unrolled an enormous palm frond. “You rock, Freebird! Don’t ever change.”

  The stranger raised his eyebrows. “Freebird?”

  “Pet parrot, friend — and endangered species. A northern sharp-tongued mockatoo…”

  The gamecock was hawkish in size but disguised by camouflage patches of green, tan, and brown. It looked the visitor dead in the eye. “What are you gawwwking at cracker?! Awk!”

  John Cap was briefly taken aback.

  “He doesn’t mean anything by it, Tom Cat.”

  Fyryx, in contrast, meant his sentence. “Havvum! The charges — or I’ll charge you!”

  “Awk! Better start palm reading, swami…”

  Ho-man flattened the frond and read.

  “Harken lawful citizens and loyal children of the crown. The state submits this slate of complaints here today in the sixty-eighth year of our lore. Prepare for the airing of grievances and judgment by the people’s court.

  “In the case of the Keep versus male teen, leaver…” Ho-man snuck a peek at the youth who was standing there still in his ironwood chains. “Treygyn of the folk clan Yin, a minor allegedly age sixteen, is accused of multiple felonies all stemming from a spree last night. Numerous crimes and misdemeanors…”

  There was a murmur among the elders. Madam Pum nodded while Minyon prayed.

  Homeboy of the Bailey went on. “By order of He Who Must Be Obeyed, charges are the following:

  “One count of premeditated leaving.

  “Two counts of stepping beyond the Keep.

  “Three counts of flight without a license.

  “Four counts of fording every stream…”

  Treygyn’s mother, Hoona Yin, moaned from the row of standing room.

  “Resisting the Finder’s arrest is worth six.

  “Evading his henchmen, another dozen.”

  Treygyn hung his head in shame.

  And yet Ho-man wasn’t done.

  “Not to mention a trio of crimes among the gravest of infractions — law mocking, jay walking, breaking and exiting.”

  “Awk! That’s a rap sheet!” Freebird cracked.

  The mockatoo pecked at the clerk’s flameworm earrings. Ho-man slapped his beak away.

  A sudden uncomfortable silence fell while Fyryx deliberately stepped out from the seating stones and into the ring. He crossed the floor at a torturous pace. His hard eyes were fixed on the shackled teen.

  At last at arm’s length from the boy, he stopped and slowly examined him. The judge stroked his red beard once and squinted, exhaling a long loud breath of air.

  “There’s no point asking how he pleads… No. The game has grown tiresome. A traitor’s denials are always lies — yes, even from a delinquent like this. Don’t let the juvenile deceive you…”

  He seemed to be talking to himself.

  Treygyn had been listening and opened his mouth as if to speak. Fyryx just scowled and turned away.

  “But before this runaway meets his fate,” justice Hurx cautioned the room at large, “an inquisition is in order. A plumbing to get to the root of this plot and flush out his co-conspirators. All of them.”

  Bylo, who was upright again, couldn’t help grunting in delight. His snorts drew the brother Treasuror’s notice.

  “We’ll begin with the bounty hunters. Finder Hamyx — your report!”

  Bylo’s grunt turned into a grumble. “Thought there’d be some breakfast first.”

  “You missed it.”

  “Grrreat. The thanks I get…”

  “You’ll live.”

  “Have it your way. Watch me starve.”

  Then the Finder mumbled to himself, “That’s two days running of grub denied. I’ll take it from somebody’s hide, I swear…”

  “The leaver’s tale — let’s have it.”

  “Of course!”

  Bylo laughed like a sly hyena and snapped his st
icky fingers twice. Somehow his crew knew what he was thinking.

  One of them brought forth a tall shepherd’s crook pike and planted it deep in the hallowed soil. Another then hoisted the kid by his collar, leaving him hanging from its hook.

  “That’s more like it,” the seeker smirked. “Now to your storytime dear, dear Fyryx…”

  He wiped the mucus from his lips.

  “Early this very morn it was, on the first full day downhill from Mid Summer’s peak, and just hours after the strangers’ arrival. Our snoop dogs were quick to pick up the scent of something loose in the Westie Woods. They sniffed and barked and licked their chops. They howled like wolves at the setting moon. My own sweet sweat hogs smelled it too — the unmistakable odor of folk blood fouling the night air of No Folks Land. Some fool was afoot at the Keep’s outer limits, aiming to enter the twilight zone…”

  Fyryx fidgeted as he listened. He started to pace around the court.

  “And so I dispatched a score of my savagest plainsmen to track the culprit down. They tore out straight as the eastern wind, riding low on a line of chevets crossbred of chevox and vell for the hunt, fixing to take their prey by surprise. Yet this leaver proved elusive… not your old-school sort of deserter. No, this one was slippery. Wily. A foxy snake of a little weasel.

  “The chase went on from starfall to dawn and westbound, each step into wilder terrain. Down through the Dim Dale, over the Mole Hills, crossing the haunted Fallow Fields. Then into the dammed Mallow Marshes he led them, right to the edge of the Siren’s Mire — Syland’s cesspool and mother of swamps. That’s where they cornered him in the muck. A dead duck stuck in it up to the neck.”

  “Odd duck to have flown alone,” mocked Fyryx turning on the witness. “Yet… you claim your men saw no sign of a flock?”

  Bylo’s hairy nostrils flared. “Think that I’m a quack? A liar?! How quick to forget our dirty work — the legions of leavers we’ve delivered, no questions asked, for ten long years…”

  “Even so Finder,” Fyryx shrugged, “I do not believe in your ‘lone leaver’ theory. Never have and never will. But don’t take my word. Let history judge. There are always accomplices, comrade.”