A. Hartley - Will Power

They sat in a circle in a swept corner of the cavern, a brace of large, swarthy Stehnites a good ten yards away from curious bystanders, though still within earshot. This last was of no consequence that I could see since the assembly was completely silent. Ominously silent, you might say. They sat like statues, eyes downcast like attendants at the funeral of someone they didn’t know very well. I can’t say I liked the feel of this, particularly as Mithos shepherded me into the center of the circle, his fingers curled round my upper arm with a grasp that could not be argued with. Then the grip was relaxed and I was left by myself in the middle. The council’s eyes rose from the floor to meet me and I decided I liked this still less. The funereal atmosphere was now augmented by something stern and sacrificial. If I was watching a funeral, it was likely to be my own.

For a moment, no one spoke. But then a sigh, as of resolve, seemed to escape several, maybe all, of them simultaneously, and, without any visible cue, they began to speak in unison.

“William Hawthorne,”-their voices were slow and somber, even sad-“reviewing your assault on the Stehnite settlement known as the Falcon’s Nest, this council finds you guilty of four separate counts of murder. Do you have anything to say?”

My jaw dropped and the room spun as if I had been slapped in the head by a roofing beam. Murder? How could an adventurer be tried for murder? I had killed a few goblins while trying to rescue my companions. That’s what adventurers did. I was the hero here. Heroes don’t murder, they. . well, they kill the evil and degenerate. But that wasn’t going to work as a defense. Maybe I could blame Renthrette. .

No. I began to speak. “Worthy council members, that I slew. . er. . people I believed to be enemies, I cannot and do not deny. That I slew them maliciously or knowing their worth, I do deny. I did what I believed was right because I had been. . misinformed. I do not mean that someone misinformed me on that particular day, that I hold the Arak Drül solely responsible. No. I was misinformed from the day of my birth. I was raised in a society where all people are judged according to their appearance. We shun the deformed and the sick; we despise those who are different from us. We even deride those who do not dress according to our customs and fashions. What we think of as abnormal we consider degenerate. What is different from our standards, we consider to have failed to meet them.

“As a child,” I said, warming to my subject, “my grandmother told me tales of hideous goblins whose appearance matched their evil, just as her mother had told her. When I came to this land, I found what I thought was confirmation of those tales in the words of Sorrail and the Arak Drül, and the strange (to my eyes) creatures that lived in the mountains. The Arak Drül culture lined up beside that which I had been raised in, so I believed them all too easily. I was wrong, but at that time I could not have assessed how wrong I was. I now know differently. I see you are an intelligent, subtle, and sophisticated race. I have read your literature and paced the sculpted streets of your city and I know your quality. This is why I do not despair. I know your virtues and, humbly, I throw myself upon them. You value truth, so I have given it to you. And as you are just, so, I beg you, be merciful.”

That went quite well, I thought. I concluded with a searching and soulful look, turning to look upon each of them in turn, then I bowed respectfully and waited. Nothing happened. Then one of them, a female swathed in a robe of blue so dark it looked like the night sky, made a minute gesture with one hand and one of the larger guards escorted me from the circle. I was turned loose and began to stroll away when a low murmur of discussion rose from the seated council. I wandered to a corner, where I sat on a low bench and poured myself a small beer from a leather flagon. Orgos followed me.

He stopped a few feet away from me, watching. I offered him a cup, but he shook his head and stayed where he was, looking at me keenly, his eyes narrow and thoughtful.

“What?” I asked. “Was it not enough?”

“I’m sure it was plenty,” he said slowly. “It was a good argument, and they will take it seriously.”

“Good,” I said, drinking.

“Did you? ” he asked, his eyes still level on me.

“Did I what?”

“Did you take it seriously?”

I thought for a second, then hedged: “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Will,” Orgos replied, coming no nearer, and standing stiffer than ever. “Did you mean it? Any of it? Or was it just another bit of theater, a speech designed to manipulate?”

“Of course it wasn’t,” I said, but my voice had been hesitant.

“Of course it wasn’t,” he echoed, blankly. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Had I meant it? The damnedest thing was, I really didn’t know. A good performer has to believe what he’s saying as he says it or the audience smells deception. It had made sense to me, and I knew it would make sense to them, but how much I thought all this cultural upbringing stuff was a sufficient excuse or explanation for what I had done, something that would rightly stop them from stringing me up and testing their spears on me, I couldn’t say.

But it did work. Kind of.

They didn’t string me up. Instead, they gave me a mission, which sounded like good news until I heard the details of what they wanted me to do.

Stringing me up would have been a lot quicker.

“The bridge guards bear out your story,” said Sorrail grimly, “but you can’t expect anyone here to believe that you have returned to Phasdreille of your own accord. Look at me when I speak to you!”

He took hold of my chin and yanked it up, slapping me hard as he did so. The guards around me hoisted me roughly into an upright, kneeling position, one of them dragging me by a fistful of hair. My cheek was so swollen with bruising that my left eye was a sightless slit. I looked at Sorrail with my right and gasped an attempt to speak. Blood spattered from my mouth in a fine spray, and a droplet fell on Sorrail’s white linen tunic. He scowled at it and then, almost casually, kicked me hard in the ribs. I collapsed onto the stone floor coughing and spitting blood.

I had no idea how long this had been going on: An hour? Two? I had been picked up by the bridge guard and brought directly to Sorrail who, assisted by his more enthusiastic troops, had beaten me periodically ever since. As I got my breath back and cleared my throat, I wheezed out my story again. “I told you already. I ran from the city and into the forest. I walked into a huge goblin army. Some of them saw me and came after me. I ran. I knew the city guards would take me in as a criminal and, with half a dozen bear-riding goblins on my tail, that seemed the best plan. I also thought that by bringing word of the enemy force, I might make up, at least in part, for my past crimes in the city. That’s all there is to tell.”

I sank to the floor again, coughing, exhausted by my narrative and feeling, more than ever, the ache in my jaw where I had been punched.

“These goblins,” Sorrail demanded, and as he came close to me I could smell his scrubbed body, still fragrant with the soap they made by boiling down goblin fat. “What standard did they bear?”

I thought for a moment. “A white half-moon-a crescent-on a red background.”

Sorrail looked at me, and though his gaze was hard and hateful as before, it held a hint of uncertainty.

“He could have seen that in the last attack on the city,” suggested a burly sergeant, scornfully.

“No,” said Sorrail, distantly. “That device is borne only by the mountain tribes to the north. They have not been seen here for many months, and certainly did not participate in any of our recent engagements. If they were here. .”