Simon Hawke - The Outcast

“Was he in any way disfigured at the timer “No, my lady, he was not”

“Was he in any way disfigured during your capture of him?”

“No, my lady.”

“Was he in any way disfigured when you left him in the private quarters of the senior templar?”

“No, my lady.”

“Thank you. You may go.”

The soldier turned and left.

“So what?” said Timor scathingly. “What does that prove? Merely that he was not disfigured when he was brought to me. Obviously, it must have happened to him during his escape, or else soon afterward.”

“Send in the next witness,” said Sadira.

A man entered whom Timor had never seen before.

“You are a healer in the elven market?” asked Sadira.

“I am, my lady.”

“And you treated the marauder named Rokan?”

“He never told me his name, my lady, but I recognized him from being shown his body. He came to me in the middle of the night and threatened to slit my throat if I did not treat him for an arrow wound. A bolt shot from a crossbow, to be precise.”

“For the record, this was the same night that the attack took place on the elfling, Sorak,” said Sadira, glancing around at the other council members, “to which other witnesses have already testified.” She turned back to the healer. “Was Rokan disfigured when he came to you for treatment?”

“Yes, my lady, most terribly so,” the healer said.

“His face was as I saw it when I was shown his body.”

“Did he happen to mention how he came by this disfigurement?”

“He asked if I was able to restore his normal appearance,” the healer said. “I told him that was beyond my skill. He replied that it was a sorcerer who had disfigured him, but he did not name the sorcerer.”

“So you treated him for his arrow wound and then he left?” Sadira asked.

“We had one other small transaction,” said the healer. “He wanted to know about poisons. Something very strong, that would kill quickly. I told him that I was a healer and did not deal in poisons, but as I did not wish my throat slit, I named one that would serve. He could easily have been able to obtain it in the elven market, so I did not tell him anything he would not have found out somewhere else, in any case. I saw no point in withholding mere information.”

“What was the poison that you named to him?” Sadira asked, ignoring the healer’s equivocation.

“Venom from a crystal spider, my lady. He wanted something with which an arrow could be envenomed.”

“An arrow such as this crossbow bolt?” Sadira asked, carefully holding up the object. “Yes, my lady.”

“This arrow was recovered from the carcass of the tigone belonging to the elfling,” said Sadira. “It was fired at the elfling by Rokan, but missed him and killed his beast, instead. Healer, would you examine this pasty substance left upon the bolt?”

The man came up to her, bent over, and cautiously sniffed the arrow. “It is venom from a crystal spider, my lady.”

“Thank you. You may go.” The healer nodded to her and left the chamber. “What is the point of all of this?” demanded Timor.

“So Rokan tried to kill the elfling. What have I to do with it? You have proven nothing with these so-called ‘witnesses.’ You merely produce them to add the appearance of some weight to your baseless insinuations.”

“Rokan was disfigured by sorcery,” said Sadira. “He was not disfigured when he was brought to you.”

“Well, so he was disfigured by sorcery! That proves I could not possibly have done it! I am not a sorcerer! My power came from Kalak during his reign. I knew nothing of magic myself. I know nothing of defiler spells!”

“Send in Captain Zalcor,” said Sadira.

A moment later, the captain of the city guard came into the chamber.

“Captain Zalcor, you have conducted your search?”

“I have, my lady.”

“Search?” Timor said uneasily. “What search?”

“And what have you found?”

“This, my lady,” Zalcor said, withdrawing a small chest from beneath his cloak.

Timor’s eyes grew wide when he saw it.

“And where was it found?”

“In the private chambers of the senior templar, my lady.”

“And what did it contain?”

“After the hinges on the lid were broken and the chest was opened, it was found to contain a spellbook, my lady. This spellbook.” He tossed it on the table so that it landed in front of Timor.

“lies!” said Timor. “This is a conspiracy! That chest was planted in my home!”

“You mean it is not yours?” Sadira asked, raising here ye brows.

“I never saw it before in my life!” She nodded to Zalcor, and the soldier suddenly seized Timor from behind, pinning his arms. As Timor cried out in protest, Rikus got up from his chair and started searching him.

“Zalcor found no key,” said Rikus. “With what that chest contained, if it were mine, I would not let the key out of my sight. Aha! What have we here?”

He tore open Timor’s tunic and revealed the key the templar wore around his neck. With a jerk, Rikus tore it off and inserted it into the lock on the chest. It fit perfectly. He turned it, and the lock snapped open. “I suppose that key was planted on you, as well?” Sadira said dryly. She closed her eyes a moment, inhaled deeply, muttered something under her breath and made a pass with her hand. The spellbook opened by itself, and the pages fluttered for a moment. Then they stopped, and the spellbook remained open on the table.

“Captain Zalcor, if you will be so kind as to look upon the page at which the book has remained open?”

Zalcor glanced down over Timor’s shoulder. “It is a spell to raise the dead, my lady.”

“I never knew he planned this,” Kor said, still staring down at the tabletop. He swallowed hard and shook his head. “I swear, I never knew that he would go this far!”

“Kor!” cried Timor. “Shut up, you imbecile!”

“Whatever he says could make no possible difference now,” Rikus said. “You already stand convicted.”

From outside the building, there came the sounds of a commotion. Many voices shouting angrily. The tramp of many feet. The sound of ominous chanting, growing closer and closer. Timor froze. They were chanting his name.

“Ti-mor! Ti-mor! Ti-mor! Ti-mor!”

“News travels fast, it seems,” Sadira said. “Can you hear them, Timor? The very mob you sought to turn against us. The voice of the people, Timor. And they are crying out for you.”

Timor paled. “You won’t turn me over to them? You can’t! You mustn’t! They would tear me limb from limb!”

“And what a pity that would be,” said Rikus, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The crowd was rapidly growing closer. The chanting was louder now, and more insistent. Rocks were hurled through the open windows. Those sitting in the line of fire quickly moved away as more missiles struck the table and the walls behind them. The council members scrambled out of the way. One of them risked a quick glance out the window.

“There is going to be riot,” he said., “There are hundreds of them out there! The guard will not be able to keep them out!”

“I should be with my men,” said Zalcor.

A fresh fusillade of rocks came through the windows, and everybody ducked. Everyone except Timor, who seized the opportunity to break away from the distracted Zalcor. He shoved the soldier hard, then bolted. Rikus started after him, but the barrage of stones through the windows slowed him down. Several large rocks struck Rikus in the head, and he stumbled, throwing up his arms to protect his face.

Timor ran out into the hall. He had no idea where he would escape to, he only knew he couldn’t let that crowd get their hands on him. Behind him, Kor cried out his name.