Paul Thompson - A Hero's justice

He laughed and kicked Dalar lightly on the rump. “Go with your mother, boy,” he said. “Tathman may not have eaten yet and I’d hate to see him dine on you!”

The five-year-old scampered after his mother, sending toy soldiers skittering over the tiles.

In the corridor outside, several lackeys awaited the emperor’s pleasure. Valaran gestured to one, a lower chamberlain named Fudosh. She relayed the emperor’s summons of the Wolf captain. Fudosh paled, but bowed and hurried to find Tathman.

When Tathman arrived, the emperor was seated at a stone table in his bath chamber, his head resting on his folded arms. His youngest wife, Lady Halie, was anointing his many bruises with a soothing unguent. She could apply the balm as well as a healer, and was far prettier than any acolyte of Mishas.

Ackal V did not look up until Tathman cleared his throat. Coming from a man his size, the sound was like a panther growling.

“Captain,” the emperor said without moving. “Farmer Tol is in Caergoth.”

“Shall I go there and kill him?”

Ackal’s shoulders shook with mirth. “That’s the spirit! No, that won’t he necessary. He’s coming here-with forty thousand warriors.”

The leader of the Wolves regarded his master stolidly. “Better to kill him far away,” he rumbled.

Ackal V glanced at his young wife. Halie knew Tolandruth only as a name. She wouldn’t betray her husband.

He said, “I want this army of traitors to come as close to Daltigoth as they dare. I want them to think success is in their grasp. Then, and only then, I want the farmer captured and brought before me. I will make such a lesson of him that all those country lords will take up priest’s robes!”

Tathman bowed his head, the long braid of his hair falling forward. “Your Majesty is most wise.”

“When the time comes, I may ask you to do things you won’t like,” Ackal V warned.

“If Your Majesty commands, I will pluck out an eye and eat it.”

This declaration, spoken with such conviction, made young Halie pause in her labors. The emperor shrugged his shoulders, signaling her to continue.

“Patience, Tathman. Your time approaches. The prospect of facing the legendary Lord Tol worries you?”

The question was a half-joking one, but Tathman’s reply was deadly serious. “No, Majesty. He bleeds like any man.”

The emperor smiled. Yes, he did bleed. Ackal V had seen Tol bleed. It was a memory he relished.

He ordered the Wolves back to the Inner City to receive instructions, training, and new equipment. When he explained his idea, Captain Tathman finally showed surprise.

“Objections?” asked the emperor.

“No, Majesty.”

Once Tathman had withdrawn, Halie paused her ministrations to renew the balm on her hands.

“Is Your Majesty in danger?” she asked diffidently.

“No.” Ackal put his head down again on his folded arms.

“But if you speak of what you’ve heard here, I’d have to cut off your head.”

His young consort smoothed the white unguent across his hare shoulders.

“I would never speak of it, sire. Better my tongue should be cut out!”

Now there was a possibility, Ackal mused. And Valaran liked to believe she was the smartest of his wives.

The cells beneath the gray citadel of Caergoth were much like the city itself-wide, light, and surprisingly clean. Everything about them was double the norm: the width of the central corridor, the size of the cells, the height of the ceiling. The walls also were twice as thick as usual. Tol and Egrin walked down the central passage, looking at the open, empty cells. Wornoth had sent all the prisoners to the big cages erected in the city’s main square to make room for extra soldiers and supplies for the citadel. With the overthrow of the governor, the dungeon was empty. An unnatural quiet had settled over the place. Only a few of the candles in the wall sconces were lit, so Tol carried a lantern.

The four levels of the dungeon held only a solitary occupant. No guard stood at the massive bronze-plated door to the prisoner’s cell, as the dungeon itself was considered proof against escape. Tol leaned into the deep doorway and rapped on the door to announce their entry. Once Egrin had thrown the heavy bolt and pulled the door open, Tol thrust his lantern into the grayness beyond.

It was a large room for a single prisoner, illuminated by a single candle. Cut into the far wall was a stone niche designed for a bedroll. Here, former governor Wornoth sat slumped. He did not look up as they entered.

“If you’ve come to assassinate me, I curse you both!” he said hoarsely, sniveling into the sleeve of his dirty robe.

Egrin grimaced in disgust. “Sit up, man,” he said. “Show some dignity!”

“We’re not here to slay you,” Tol said. “We’ve come to tell you about your trial.” Wornoth lifted his pale face, blinking in surprise. “You will be judged by a jury of nine warriors, chosen by lot.”

Such a procedure was unknown in Ergoth, where justice was dispensed from on high by imperial officials. At the pinnacle was the emperor, whose utterances were law. The marshals enforced this law, ruling over provinces known as “hundreds”-a term that had once referred to the number of warlords serving the marshal, but was now merely a geographical term. Each marshal was attended by wardens, whose number in each hundred varied according to the strength of the population. The Eastern Hundred, Tol’s homeland, had one warden. Caergoth had four.

At the lowest level, justice was enforced by bailiffs. These were usually Riders of the Great Horde appointed for a specific purpose-to catch a notorious outlaw, or to investigate a murder in some remote corner of the realm. Tol had learned of trial by jury in Tarsis, where the procedure was common.

“I am the imperial governor, appointed by His Majesty Ackal V! All I have done, I have done in his name!”

“Make no mistake, Wornoth. You’re not being tried for being a vicious, petty tyrant, though you ought to be,” Tol said. “The principle charge against you is failing to defend the eastern provinces of the empire. By keeping your hordes in Caergoth, you allowed the nomads to ravage four provinces. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of imperial subjects perished, villages were sacked and property destroyed by your folly. That is your crime.”

Wornoth’s face grew even paler. He whispered, “I did what I thought best. You can’t condemn me for that!”

“It is not up to me to condemn you for anything. That’s why we’re having a trial. It begins at dawn.”

Tol turned to go. Wornoth sprang from his sleeping niche and grasped Tol’s knees. Egrin’s sword was out in a trice, but alarm quickly turned to revulsion.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Wornoth gabbled wildly, “Please, gracious lord! Please, spare me! I made mistakes, yes, but I can rectify them! I can! Please! Please!”

“Get hold of yourself!” Tol said, trying to pry him loose. “For Corij’s sake, be a man!”

“But I don’t want to die! I did only what I thought my emperor wanted me to do! Please!”

Tol managed to shove him away. Wornoth fell backward and lay still, sobbing and pleading.

“You’re going to Daltigoth, aren’t you? I can be of use to you, great lord. I know much about the emperor’s doings. I can tell you things!”

Egrin asked, “Would you betray your sovereign?”

“Yes! Yes! To spare my life, yes!”

Thoroughly disgusted now, Tol said nothing. He went to the cell door.

“You are being used, my lord!” Wornoth cried. “The emperor’s hand has guided you to the very course you’re now on! If you go to Daltigoth, you shall be destroyed!”