David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

When they reached the courtroom’s antechamber on the second story of the tower, the Sisters walked straight through it, not stopping to wash their hands or to genuflect before the placard professing Karak’s commandments. Neither did Clovis. Soleh would not allow herself such insolence, though she seemed to be the only one who felt that way, as Captain Gregorian mimicked the Highest and Thessaly; normally just as much a stickler for court tradition as she was, he passed her by. Shivering, Soleh hastily wetted her hands with lukewarm water from the carafe, whispered a few quick words of praise to her god, and followed the rest into the main courtroom, where she promptly began to feel weak in the knees.

The scent hit her first, nearly knocking her off her feet. It was a pungent, coppery scent, smelling strongly of ammonia and human waste. The sight hit her second, and that finished the job the smell had started. She collapsed to one knee, holding a hand over her mouth, gagging.

Laid out in the middle of the courtroom, on a pair of wooden slabs, were two bloodied bodies that were so debased she couldn’t tell whether they were male or female. There was blood everywhere; it covered the corpses, the slabs. Drips even speckled the courtroom floor. Soleh noted, though not consciously, that one of the cadavers was unnaturally bloated, whereas the other was not. That accounted for the horrible smell.

“What… is this?” she gasped.

“Get off the dais,” said the Captain. “See who they are for yourself.”

She didn’t want to. In the name of all that was holy, she truly didn’t. Yet she saw in the faces all around her, save for those of the Sisters, which were expressionless as always, that this emergency call of justice would not commence until she had. She covered her nose with her hands, took a deep breath, and steeled herself for what lay ahead. She took each step deliberately, just as she had done every day for many, many years. The appalling odors became all the more dreadful the closer she came, but she dared not stop. She realized that the bodies belonged to a man and a woman. The woman was in a horrific state, completely disemboweled, while the man’s throat had been slit and his member mutilated. She grew pale.

Soleh looked at their faces closely, the only parts of either body that had been scrubbed clean of blood. Both were badly bruised and distended from the gases of death, but she almost immediately found something familiar about them. Then she noticed their hair-the woman’s was red and curly, the man’s brown with a few streaks of gray. Their identity hit her all at once, and she backpedaled, almost tripping over her own feet in the process.

It was Crian Crestwell and the western deserter, Nessa DuTaureau.

Her eyes shot up, seeking out Clovis.

“I am so sorry,” she said, her voice echoing throughout the chamber.

The Highest scowled at her. “Save your apologies for when your duties are complete,” he said harshly.

Soleh wanted to retort but held her tongue. His outrage is understood , she thought. I cannot imagine how I would feel if I lost a child in this way. She thought of the time that had almost happened, when Oris had been badly burned, trapped in a raging fire while stupidly trying to rescue the three whores trapped inside. He had been unconscious for nearly a month, and during that time Soleh had been nearly inconsolable. There were moments when she’d wished she could take her son’s place. It was only when Oris finally opened his eyes-scarred for life, but alive-that she allowed herself to live once more. She then thought of Vulfram, residing in the same tower as the two of them, and immediately feared for his safety. He wasn’t there, not standing with the others, not dead on a slab. That could mean.…

She shook with fright even as she nodded to those who formed a bracketed line around the two corpses. She then made her way uneasily across the remainder of the courtroom floor, climbed the stairs on the other side, and took her place in the Seat of the Minister. Thessaly did not join her, instead remaining by her father’s side. The woman who had sat at Soleh’s right hand while she interpreted Karak’s justice for the guilty still refused to look at her. Soleh drummed her fingers on the armrest of the throne, a lump in her throat, and waited.

Captain Gregorian took two steps forward. He swallowed hard and snapped his feet together. Unlike the way he had been down in the antechamber, he was now completely composed and businesslike. It was a transformation that gave an illusion of normalcy to this strange and disturbing call to duty.

“Court is in session,” stated the Captain. He genuflected on one knee before the Seat of the Minister, then stood to his full height once more, following protocol.

“Bring out the accused,” Soleh said, fearful anticipation causing the knot in her stomach to tighten. Please let it not be him.

Gregorian bowed his head and made his way not to the main vestibule, which was where the criminals were normally ushered in from, but to the side passageway, built into the tower as an alternate route of escape in case of fire. The Captain yanked open the door and dipped inside. When he returned, he dragged behind him a stumbling man whose arms and legs were chained together. The man was bare chested, with a messy stubble of hair on the top of his head. His face was bruised and bloodied, and he walked with the lurch of one who’d either taken in far too much liquor or had been beaten senseless.

Soleh’s heart sank despite the shock of his condition.

She wheeled on the Highest. “Why is my son in this state? Why has he been beaten?”

“SILENCE!” screamed Clovis, his voice echoing so loudly, she could imagine it reaching the top of the spire. “Your responsibility on that throne is to pass judgment on the accused, not question the bearers of the law.”

She sat back down, flabbergasted and afraid.

Gregorian hauled Vulfram through the courtroom, past the onlookers, past the two mutilated corpses, and threw him down before her. Her son’s back flexed with each breath he took. He stayed where we was, on his shackled hands and knees, head down. The Captain walked in front of him and addressed the court.

“Before the Seat of the Minister I present Vulfram Jorah Mori, son of Ibis and Soleh, a man whose current position is that of Lord Commander of the Army of Karak. He stands accused of the murder of Crian Crestwell and Nessa DuTaureau, children of Karak, the Divinity of the East.”

Soleh swallowed hard, trying her best to keep calm. “And who witnessed these crimes?”

“I have, Minister,” the Captain said, glaring down at Vulfram as he said it.

At those words, Vulfram vaulted up. His irons caught, limiting his movement, but he strained his neck, looking like he was trying to force his skeleton from his body. He stared up at Soleh, eyes so wide it seemed as though they might explode out of their sockets.

“It is not true!” he yelled. “I swear on all that is holy, it isn’t. You must believe me!”

Gregorian planted a boot in his back, knocking him to the floor, where he bashed his chin against the bottom step of the dais.

“He lies,” the Captain said. He reached behind him, pulled a knife from the bag that hung on the side of his belt opposite his sword. “I found him in the deceased’s room in the Tower Keep, passed out on the floor. The Lord Commander was completely unharmed, though he reeked of liquor and was covered with their blood. He held this blade in his hand-the very same blade responsible for the mutilation of the victims. I swear upon my life that this is true.”

Soleh believed him. Malcolm Gregorian was not a man predisposed to lying. He certainly believed Vulfram was the murderer and had found her son in a very compromising position. But was he mistaken? Had Vulfram been attacked by an unseen assailant and framed for the crime?