David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

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 so 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.