The sun soared high over Alikon as the Dragonslayers caught their first glimpse of Harper Creek. Glistening snow melted on barn roofs, in some places sliding in thick sheets onto the ground. Dark stripes cut through the wintry countryside where horses and carts had churned the snow and mud together. The cold snap had broken, and the white-capped hills slowly gave way to earthtones.
As they crested the small rise, Moffe brought their travels to a halt and frowned at the unwalled community tucked into the valley below. Harper Creek straddled a clear stream of the same name just before the creek flowed into the Rae Alikon. Stately buildings with marble façades flanked the tree-lined avenue that split the town in half north-to-south. Standing prominently in the town center, a cathedral of stone and stained glass dominated the buildings surrounding it. The house of worship faced due north, and its spire, as tall as the building beneath it, cast a shadow over the town like a giant sundial.
“What a beautiful place,” Cora breathed.
Moffe shook his head and snorted. “Harper Creek is more like a sculpted sarcophagus, if you ask me. Beautiful to look at but filled with the stench of death.”
“That’s Harper Creek?” Elric asked, then he chuckled. “I heard o’ this place back home. They got their noses so high inna air ‘at they drown when it rains. They squeeze a silver coin so tight the eagle screams. If they ever lost a—”
“Elric…” Cora rolled her eyes. “That’s enough.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to the warden. “What do you mean? The cathedral is magnificent, the colors striking, and everything is laid out with such care and attention to—”
The peal of bells from the spire, tuned in perfect fifths, rolled up the countryside, and Cora paused to listen. A contented smile spread across her face as she gestured into the valley. “There, wasn’t that lovely? Tombs don’t produce such delightful sounds.”
A sneer pulled at the corner of Moffe’s lips. “Don’t let the pristine lawns and precision smiles fool you. The House of Order dominates much more than the skyline. They sought perfection here, and they found it inside the tight-fisted glove of repression.”
Cora shrugged a single shoulder. “That’s not what I’ve heard about the Adherents of Order. Don’t get me wrong; I could never abide by the strict regulations they espouse, but…Beauty is found in the regular Order of things. Sure, the sect tends toward legalism, and the Adherents are judgmental. But why shouldn’t their faith have something to say about the way they live?”
“Of course it should,” Moffe said, “but it shouldn’t dictate everything they do. And condemn everyone else.”
“But look at the place. It’s so inviting.” The more Cora gazed at the quiet town with its proscribed layout, precise architecture, and stately cathedral, the more she wanted to know about it. Did they truly have a code that dictated every minutia of daily life? Though the thought of a codified life chilled her like a fork scraping on porcelain, curiosity drove her to witness for herself what the complete absence of liberty felt like. If nothing else, she was guaranteed a clean bed, fresh food, and a warm bath. “Let’s give it a visit.”
“No.” Moffe’s blunt reply startled the songsage. Even Kiyla paused at the punchy response.
Heat rose beneath Cora’s collar. She flashed a glare at the warden. “First of all, Moffe, you’re our guide, not the leader of this company.”
“And I’m guiding you through this place as quickly as possible. We’re not stopping for a visit.”
Cora’s jaw flexed. “Yes, we are. I want to see the inside of that cathedral, and I need a bath.”
“Do you forget what we carry?” The warden’s voice hardened. “Of all the possible routes back to the Cerion Forest, this one—the one I’m guiding you on—avoids all the larger settlements crawling with guards who would ask far too many questions about our bag of bones. Harper Creek doesn’t have a wall or a patrol of nosy guards. All they care about is whether you commit one of a thousand possible infractions of their asinine code. If we lay low and don’t do anything rash, we should be able to pass through unnoticed and unscathed. But pass through is what we’re doing.”
“Unscathed?” Cora’s voice rose to match his. “They’re not tainted, Moffe. Their rules aren’t going to corrupt you like an infectious disease.” She heard the biting rebuke lacing her words, but the music was already playing. The crescendo was building, and she was powerless to stop it. “You make it sound like imminent danger is lurking behind every cute little building. Or maybe you think eating their food will pollute your soul. Do you think walking in the shadow of that spire will curse you? Are you having flashbacks of Elinwyche?”
“Wow.” Moffe’s face turned to stone. “Is that what you think leadership is?”
A wave of hot regret washed over Cora, and she covered her mouth. “No…that was uncalled for. I’m truly sorry.”
Elric shuffled to his feet and wagged his head. “Well, if y’all are done spattin’ like a ol’ married couple, let’s get. I got some smitin’ to do.”
“It’s a ten-eagle fine if you pull your weapon.” The timbre of Moffe’s voice matched the frostiness of the surrounding air. “And you don’t have enough wealth to pay the fine if you use it.”
Elric smirked and brushed Moffe off with a flippant hand.
“You think I’m kidding? Their code fills an entire wing of that ‘glorious’ cathedral. Literally. There’s a fine for looking the wrong person in the eye and one for not looking the right person in the eye. There’s one for wearing the wrong color of pants on the twenty-seventh day of Capra. Elric. Don’t even think about touching your sword.”
Elric dropped a quick glance at his trousers.
“I think you might be embellishing a little,” Cora replied.
The warden’s stony stare lingered until her confidence faltered. “Maybe. But how could I really know? I’m just the guide.”
Cora hung her head and exhaled a long sigh.
Moffe vaulted into his saddle. “I’m serious when I say no jokes, no spellsongs, no cracking knuckles, no jungle war cries, and no smiting. Harper Creek is not a good place for freeblades. They don’t like blades, and they don’t like freedom. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your feet moving. If you can do that for ten whole minutes, we’ll come out the other side with only a couple of minor fines. Which we will pay as we bid them a good day.”
They remounted and rode into the valley in silence. Moffe’s warning rang in Cora’s ears, as did the pettiness of her response. Why can’t I remain calm and even-keeled? Cuauhtie never said a word. Why can’t I be more like him?
A black-and-gold liveried soldier stepped from a small, covered booth alongside the trail a quarter-mile outside Harper Creek. “Good day.” He muttered to himself as he scanned their packs, saddlebags, and faces.
Cora stepped forward quickly. “A good day to you, sir.” This is my party, and I will lead it.
“You are a curious group, clearly not related, married…” He paused as his gaze bounced from face to face. “And perhaps not particularly happy to be together. What brings you to Harper Creek?”
“We were visiting an old friend.” Cora answered. “We’re a freeblade company, the Dragonslayers—perhaps you’ve heard of us—based out of Cer Cannaid and just…passing through.” She gave Moffe a sideways glance.
The guard nodded and continued his inspection.
Cora stepped closer. “The pastoral scenery of the heartland is especially picturesque this time of year, don’t you think?”
“Yes, milady,” the guard said. “The early snow added a nice touch.”
“Just as I was thinking,” Cora replied with her best pandering tone. “Harper Creek is surely scenic in any season, but especially so in the winter as its stately buildings stand proudly against the clear skies and stark trees.”
The guard ambled around their horses. “We work hard to keep our city just the way we like it.”
“Well, what if it ain’t right?” Elric spouted.
Cora’s breath caught as the soldier stopped, his scrutinizing gaze fixed squarely on Elric. She feigned an amused chuckle. “My friend was a member of Westmeade’s city guard, and he can be a bit brusque at times. Please forgive his impetuous manner, for he only meant to inquire into your methods of handling unwanted visitors, intruders, and other miscreants. He is accustomed to walled cities, you know.”
The guard resumed his meandering walk. “Westmeade. I hear they confined a group of freeblades within their walls. Somehow, even with those walls firmly in place, a dragon was able to set up his home. If Westmeade’s walls cannot keep dragons out but are only effective at imprisoning people, then we are not likely to accept criticism from one of Westmeade’s guards.”
“Of course.” Cora shot a disapproving glare at Elric.
When the guard had finished his visual inspection, he retrieved a small binder from his booth and asked Cora to sign it.
“We do not require peace-bonding, but any brandishing of your weapons in Harper Creek is strictly forbidden. The arcane arts are strictly forbidden, as is summoning creatures, speaking with the dead, communing with nature or nature’s creatures, changing the weather, controlling people’s minds, getting drunk, and walking around naked.”
“Cripe, I was lookin’ forward to that,” Kiyla mumbled with a roll of her eyes.
“There shall be no fighting, swearing, gambling, bribery, extortion, blasphemy of the House of Order, the men of the cloth, and especially the Maker. There shall be no drunkenness, gluttony, prostitution, vagrancy, laziness, tardiness, or loitering.”
“Cripe…” Kiyla said again, this time more audibly.
The guard pulled a booklet from his pocket and scribbled some notes on it. He tore free a slip of parchment and handed it to Kiyla. “Swearing is forbidden,” he said with subtle serenity. “Present this to the magistrates before sundown to settle your fine.”
Cora looked back at the brawler with her arms held out in disbelief.
“Also note,” the guard continued, “records of fines are kept at all checkpoints. Warrants will be made for your arrest for any refusal to pay, and any resistance offered during such arrest will be met with the measure of force deemed necessary to gain your cooperation. Additional rules are posted in the town square and are read aloud the first day of each week at precisely noon to all inhabitants and visitors of Harper Creek. Attendance is mandatory. Do we have an accord?”
“Yes, sir,” Cora replied, “and thank you for your thoroughness, for our sake.”
The guard bowed and swept his arm toward the town. “You may pass, and please…enjoy your stay.”
“Well done,” Moffe said to Cora when they were out of earshot of the guard.
Cora shrugged. “It’s what I do…although, we didn’t even make it into town before one of us was fined…Kiyla. No more swearing. We don’t want to be beggars when we leave.”
“Why not?” Kiyla quipped. “Is that forbidden?”
Elric chuckled.
Cora shook her head and turned to Moffe. “I take your point about this town, so I will visit someday on my own time. How quickly can we eat and leave?”
The warden grinned wryly. “Probably not quickly enough.”
The country trail turned to cobblestone several hundred feet before the city properly began, giving hooves and wagon wheels plenty of distance to knock off the clinging mud from their journey. Houses lining both sides of the street stood proudly in symmetrical alignment, and even the smallest abodes boasted excellent repair. Slate tile topped every structure, with painted shutters and flower boxes trimming every window. Every hedge was neatly groomed and every lawn manicured.
After several blocks of this, Cora ground her teeth. The urge to yell gnawed at her; she wanted to spill something, knock a flowerpot over…to make something out of order. It was too perfect.
“Creepy place, isn’t it?” Moffe asked quietly.
Cora swallowed hard. “Are we allowed to say that?”
Moffe nodded. “It’s gotten to you already. You see why I don’t like coming here.”
“Where are dees people?” Cuauhtérroc asked. “I do not like dees towns weeth no people.”
Moffe held up a hand in a half-shrug. “Maybe it’s the official napping hour. We’ll probably be fined for not sleeping.”
The street angled down toward the river, requiring the buildings to be cut into the ground in stair-step fashion. Near the town’s center, the structures grew in grandeur, giving the entire town a look of dignity, strength, and stability.
Over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, the House of Order came into view, an intricate blend of stonework surrounding a lofty stained-glass window depicting a golden eagle grasping a bell in one talon and a dagger in the other. The pointed spire topped a bell tower supported by flying buttresses. Multiple round windows along the walls held intricate glass patterns smoked a dark gray to nearly black and marbled with gold. In a recessed alcove above a flight of marble steps, a pair of towering doors carved with the six-sided rune of Judgment embossed in gold, looming down with silent accusation against those unworthy to step inside.
As they entered the intersection, the missing population came into view. Across a manicured lawn, a crowd quietly assembled around a sturdy wooden platform erected in the middle of the town square. Family units were obvious with mothers and fathers standing close with children in their arms or sitting quietly at their feet. Atop the platform stood two men who had commanded the people’s quiet attention.
Cora exchanged a curious glance with Moffe. One of the two men was bound, his wrists tied with ropes to rigid posts on opposite corners of the platform, stretching his arms out to either side. The other man, dressed in the garb of a councilman, held a small parchment scroll.
“Looks like a public sentencing,” Cora whispered to Moffe.
The warden nodded. “Not surprising.”
“Let me get in closer.”
“Cora…” Moffe shook his head.
Cora handed him the horse’s reins and quietly slipped from her saddle. “I want to see what it’s about. I’ll only be a minute.”
As she wended through the crowd, the eyes of several townsfolk darted about with nervous apprehension. Fingers pointed to the man bound with ropes, and feet shuffled as if ready to run at a moment’s notice. Soon she had weaved through the crowd sufficiently to hear the magistrate’s decree. He sped through the document, stealing wary glances at the man bound in ropes.
“…and for crimes against the sanctity of Harper Creek,” the magistrate read, “you will receive your quarterly flogging. Finally, for disturbing the peace, you will be placed in the stocks for one night and one day.”
“Please, no,” the condemned man pleaded. “I don’ recollect what I done.” Despondency clouded his brown eyes. Not fear or defiance, only hopelessness. “I’m so tired of this.”
The magistrate stiffened. “We are all tired of this. Confess, and this will be your last time up here.” As he stepped away, he nodded to a burly man in the background who came forward with a cat-o-nine-tails. Cora’s breath caught. His back will be torn to ribbons!
“Please!” Gatsen’s jaw clenched, and his arms strained against his bonds. “I don’t know what I did!”
The magistrate backed away to make room for Gatsen’s punisher. Cora scanned the crowd, her jaw slackening at their lack of emotion. Nobody flinched when the braided whip lashed across Gatsen’s back. Children looked on wide-eyed as fresh stripes of produced rivulets of crimson down skin made jagged with old scars. Like the toll of a funeral bell, the sickening crack of barbed leather on flesh pierced the tranquil air, over and over again. As with everything else in Harper Creek, this was orderly without deviation.
Cora turned away in disgust when Gatsen’s cries of pain turned to numbed silence, with little more to be heard than the spongy sound of leather ripping through flesh. She pushed back through the solemn crowd to rejoin the freeblades. “We can skip the meal. I’d rather not stay any longer than necessary.”
Moffe nodded, and Cora read I told you so.
“Let’s go,” the warden said. “We’ll eat our trail rations for the time being. Cuauhtérroc and I can hunt roebucks in the woodlands farther east.”
But Elric remained, his determined eyes fixed on the public flogging. And Kiyla remained near him, watching him closely.
Cora climbed into her saddle. “Come on, Elric.”
“I gotta smite the evil,” he said.
“What?” Cora pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, Elric. We’re leaving.”
“Ain’t no sense in runnin’ off, Love,” said a voice from above.
Despite two men headed toward the other end of town and Elric and Kiyla edging toward the central platform, Cora squinted into the bright winter sky to find the voice.
Perched upon a nearby rooftop was a man resting against the warm stonework of a smoking chimney. Light gray smoke curled about his face as he puffed on a long, slender stick of yellowish-green rolled leaf. How’d he get past the guards?
She was about to ask him that when he patted the roof beside his leg. “Pull up a shingle…heh. The show’s about to begin.” Eyelids drooped heavily over dark green eyes as if he had just awoken from a deep slumber.
Ruddy skin marked him as belonging to one of the various tribes of wild Vashanti, but he was dressed unlike the Animithe seen in Elinwyche. A bright multi-colored vest topped a wardrobe of earth tones, and the whole disheveled ensemble was ragged and stained. Sitting atop his left shoulder was a white screech owl, its lemon-yellow eyes staring through the smoke. The Vashanti’s hair, a blend of several shades of blondish-brown, hung nearly to his waist in ratted dreadlocks.
“What do you mean?” Only a heartless kern would call this a show.
“Whoa, you don’t know about Gatsen?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The Vashanti’s eyes closed as he placed a hand to his forehead, and he swayed as if the weight of his own thoughts staggered him. “Aw man, that really flips my wig. It’s like you’re sayin’ you’re not afraid, only backwards…like the Ogrians…heh. Or are you sayin’ you are afraid, but ‘not.’ Whoa, that’s deep, man…”
Cora folded her arms. “What do you know about him?”
“The freak? Man, he’s about to get all crazy on this place. Every three months they trot him out here for a beatin’…heh…and he goes nuts. Totally loses his peyin.”
“Please…what did he do to deserve this treatment.”
“It’s hard to say, man. Last time he broke free and killed some folks—that was a righteous show…heh.”
Cora jabbed a finger at him. “Okay, first of all, I’m not a man. Second—”
“Whoa…I know you’re not a man ‘cause you got all the right curves in all the right places…heh.”
She shot him a glare fiery enough to boil water. “That’s quite enough. And this is not a show. I don’t know what it is, maybe a travesty of justice or entirely well deserved, but it’s—”
“Shut that lovely mouth of yours, Doll, and watch.” The Vashanti pulled the smokestick from his lips and pointed with it toward the central platform.
Gatsen howled with rage, and a swell of nervous murmuring rippled through the crowd. Cora spun around and scanned the agitated crowd. Trouble was brewing, and she wanted nothing to do with it. Moffe’s warnings, previously scoffed, now echoed in her head with alarming clarity. They needed to hasten their exit from Harper Creek.
Pushing through the shuffling crowd, Elric pressed closer to the platform, his short sword at the ready and Kiyla ever on his heels.
Cora glanced down the eastern road to see Moffe and Cuauhtérroc a quarter mile away in the opposite direction. The party had split, all of them leaving her behind in a moment of distraction.
“Oh, for the love of Beauty!”
Elric strode toward the platform as the serrated whip lashed across Gatsen’s back. Gatsen’s cries of pain had morphed into growls of stubborn endurance, and his face had hardened into grim defiance. Something clearly was out of place.
As he reached the platform’s edge, Kiyla grabbed his shoulder. “Whatcha gonna smite?”
“I dunno,” Elric said. “That chucklehead with the whip has got my hackles up, so I reckon it’s him.” With Argyle’s instruction replaying in his head, Elric knew only one thing truly: somebody needed a butt-whoopin’.
The punisher raised his arm to strike yet again, but Gatsen unleashed a roar of anger that echoed throughout the vale. The whip hung in mid-air as its wielder jerked back, shock spreading his eyes wide. A wave of panic swept over the assembled townsfolk, scattering them in a thousand directions away from the dais.
Gatsen grabbed the ropes binding his arms. With a mighty grunt, he snapped the posts in half and yanked the broken stubs toward himself. One of these leveled the whip-wielder with a sharp impact to the back of his head.
Freed of his mooring, Gatsen wrapped several loops of rope around his arms, drawing the jagged posts closer. With tight, circular motions, he spun them in a flailing orbit around him, crushing everything within ten feet.
Elric nodded and set his jaw. “Looks like I gotta smite him now.”
Kiyla gawked at the spectacle. “He’ll take your head off.”
A trumpet blew nearby, and a patrol of armored soldiers waded through the retreating crowd, led by a tasseled and plumed captain on a high-stepping stallion. His gleaming longsword held aloft, the captain shouted orders and advanced toward the platform. Upon reaching the edge, he nudged Elric with a booted foot. “Who are you?
“I’m Elric Reichtoven, an’ I’m fixin’ to clean this guy’s plow.”
“That will not be necessary,” the captain replied with a shade of derision. “My men will handle this.”
“No, sir. I’s sent here to smite the evil.” Elric stood proudly. “By Argyle himself. I’m a paladin o’ Light.”
The captain scoffed. “You are no such thing.” He raised his sword aloft. “Men! To the ready!”
Twenty soldiers snapped their heels in perfect unison, drawing their swords together with a single, melodious ring of blade on sheath. Standing at attention, they waited their captain’s command.
His arm remained aloft as Elric scrambled up the platform steps and rolled across the floor beneath the whirling poles.
“Get away from there!” the captain barked.
Gatsen roared an incoherent string of syllables in Elric’s direction, his eyes wide with fury but clouded with confusion.
“In the name o’ the Light,” Elric yelled in return, “if you don’t quit that belly-achin’, I’m gonna knock ya back into yesterday.”
“Elric!” Cora’s voice pierced the chaos of his surroundings as she ran through the retreating crowd. “What are you doing? You daft fool!”
He caught her eye and grinned.
Her hands flew to her mouth in wide-eyed horror. The full force of a swirling fence post smashed across his chest. Elric’s feet left the floor, his shortsword flew into the air, and his body sailed limply across the town square and crashed through the front window of a nearby blacksmith’s shop.
He was vaguely aware of several sharp pains knifing through his body, then his vision faded to black.
Kiyla cursed as white-hot anger coursed through her veins.
Cora paled and trembled. “Please, no! Not again.”
“See to him,” Kiyla said. “I got this.”
Gatsen roared again and leaped off the edge of the platform. The few townsfolk remaining scrambled over each other, screaming and crying as they fled.
The captain shouted orders, sending his men to head off Gatsen’s escape. At the captain’s command, soldiers advanced two-by-two to intercept the prisoner’s movements. Each pair in turn met the crushing blows of Gatsen’s makeshift flails. The air reverberated with the clang of dented metal.
Cora pulled her lute around and started a soothing lullaby.
Kiyla shook her head and balled her fists. I got your back, Elric. She spoke a trigger phrase over her ragged gloves, and they glowed an iridescent green and dripped with a sizzling liquid. She crouched into a ready stance and waited. Beneath the spinning lumber and growing collection of battered men, Kiyla watched for her opening, her right knee pressed against her chest, her left leg stretched out sideways and her fingertips lightly balanced on the ground.
As the soldiers’ bodies fell into a moaning, quivering pile, Gatsen tripped and lost his footing. He stumbled back and lost the controlled orbits of his wooden flails. With barely enough time to react, Kiyla rolled forward and under the spinning flails. In a spray of splinters, the post slammed into the ground where she had been crouched and rebounded in an awkward angle.
Gatsen staggered with the shifting balance of his improvised weapons. Seizing opportunity, Kiyla sprang up and caught the rope in her acidic gloves. From Gatsen’s hands to hers, the rope suddenly stopped, but the rest of it snapped back on a much tighter axis. Acid from her gloves burned through the rope with little resistance. The log that had sailed over Kiyla broke free and whipped back at twice the speed toward its wielder.
Gatsen never saw it coming.
Silence washed over the town square, broken by the occasional groan of a fallen soldier. Kiyla stood over the downed Gatsen, a single boot pressed against his chest. He was not dead but his ragged breathing strained through a broken nose and cheekbone.
The captain dismounted and stood at Kiyla’s side. “That was a bold maneuver, lass,” he said. “Perhaps a bit unconventional and risky, but it was effective.”
“Teach it to your men,” she replied with a toss of her ash blonde braid. “They need to learn somethin’.”
Cora stepped gingerly through the jagged shards of the blacksmith’s window to find Elric sitting against the central anvil. A telltale smear of ash in an otherwise sooty floor showed how far he had slid after crashing through the window. But Elric sat upright and grinned, and that was a good sign.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly.
“Welp…I don’ rightly know.” Elric shrugged, then grimaced in pain. “I reckon I done got smited myself.”
“Smitten, Elric,” Cora corrected, then she paused. “Or is it smote? Never mind, smited will do.”
“I reckon jumpin’ off into that mess was dumb as one o’ them flyin’ fence posts.”
Cora swallowed a laugh. “So, are you hurt?”
“Only my pride. An’ my right shoulder, which I cain’t move. Also my ribs, legs, tailbone, back…I feel like I got run over by a whole herd o’ cattle.”
Cora shook her head and sighed. “Well, your tongue still works, so there’s that.”
Elric grinned. “True.”
After checking him for embedded glass and broken bones, Cora helped him to his feet and slid an arm around him to support his weight. “Come on. Gatsen is down but alive, though I can’t say as much for many of the town’s guardsmen. Let’s go sort through all this and see if the Maker really needs you here or not.”
“Who’s Gatsen?”
Cora pulled up with a start. Did he hit his head? She examined his forehead, temples, and base of his skull. “You sure you’re all right? Gatsen was the man on the platform.”
“Oh…I never got his name. I’s jis there to smite ‘im.”
Cora helped him step back through the shattered window. “Elric, we didn’t come here to attack people—”
“I was smitin’ ‘im.”
“You don’t even know what that means.” Cora stopped and glared into Elric’s blue eyes—filled with eagerness to make a difference but clueless as to how. “Remember why we were on trial in Westmeade? You can’t insert yourself into local affairs. Right or wrong, this wasn’t our problem. Cripe, the captain of the guard was sitting right there. It certainly wasn’t something you needed to smite, even if you do know what that means, which I suspect if you did, you would have shown considerably more restraint.”
Elric frowned. “Ya know, you can gimme the bacon without all ‘at sizzle.”
“I’m sorry, but if you’re going to be a paladin, you have to do far more thinking than acting. In a word, you can’t be impetuous.”
After a dejected sigh, Elric raised his head. “Ya reckon I’ll make a good paladin some day?”
He sought hope and affirmation. Cora bit the inside of her cheek. Not bloody likely… But he needed support, and since he followed her, that made it her duty to provide it. She forced a warm smile. “I’ll throw a huge party when you pass the trials.”
Elric beamed and limped forward with renewed confidence. Cora rubbed her face and blew through her bangs. That’ll be the day.
Heated voices rose to greet them as they approached the dais.
“He ain’t done here,” Kiyla barked.
The captain remained stolid, his hand resting atop the pommel of his longsword. “It matters not; this is my jurisdiction.”
Kiyla folded her arms and widened her stance. “Well, he’s here now. He’ll tell you.”
The captain spun on his heels and glared down at Elric. “What will you tell me?”
Elric searched both faces before offering a shrug. “I dunno. What am I s’posed to tell ‘im, Ki?”
Kiyla tossed her arms in the air with an exasperated snort. “Why you’re bloody here!”
Elric thrust out a hand, but a groan squeezed through clenched teeth. “I’m Elric Reichtoven, an’ I’m sorry I cain’t shake yer hand. I been tore up from the floor up, an’—”
“I am Captain Wesley Nauters, and there is nothing more for you to do. You demonstrated bravery today, although I am uncertain you accomplished anything for it.”
Elric stood as tall as his injured frame allowed. “Well, I used t’be a guard fer Westmeade. Now I’m fixin’ t’be a paladin o’ Light. The Maker told me to smite sumpin in ‘is here town, ‘cause y’all done screwed up right from wrong. So, I ain’t done ‘til I done some smitin’.”
“What the—” Nauters began.
“Pardon me,” Cora interjected before the captain could find his words. “I’m Cora O’Banion, and I represent the Dragonslayers, a freeblading group under the commission of Duke Lenair. I can assure you we have no desire to interfere with any lawful means of sentencing for crimes committed.”
“If ‘at feller’s still breathin’,” Elric growled, “then I still got some smitin’ to do.”
Cora smiled weakly at the captain, then she turned to Elric with an icy glare. “Stop. Just stop with the smiting nonsense. I’m serious, Elric. This is neither the time nor place for it.”
“Well, I cain’t do nuttin’ with my arm hangin’ like a wet rag.”
Cora turned back to Nauters. “I sincerely apologize for this. Truly, we had intended only to pass through on our way, but our consciences required that we lend what aid we could toward reestablishing order in this peaceful town, even at great personal cost.”
Kiyla pulled on Elric’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s get outta here.”
Elric stood his ground, his blue eyes locked onto the captain. “But I gotta smite sumpin…I jis don’ know who needs it most.”
“Again, I appreciate your assistance,” Captain Nauters said, “but I will take it from here. The cathedral cassock, Alexis Andrade—she approaches now—will tend to my men, and I will handle the prisoner.”
A slender young woman ascended the stairs on the farthest side of the platform and walked into view. She was garbed in the traditional vestments of the House of Order—light chain mail draped across her willowy frame, covered by a black frock trimmed in gold. Embroidered into her tunic was a black eagle grasping a golden bell, the rune of judgment and holy symbol of Order, with actual gold thread interwoven into the fabric. As she knelt beside each fallen guardsman, there was a profound sense of duty and purpose to her movements.
The captain’s shoulders relaxed. “I assure you; everything is under control.”
“Captain,” Cora said as the captain mounted his stallion again, “what was Gatsen’s offense?”
“Did you not see what he did?”
“I mean his original offense. What deserved the flogging?”
Nauters studied Cora for a time, then snapped the reins lightly, pulling his horse away from the platform. “It does not concern you. He violated the law. That is all you need to know. Good day.”
Cora placed a hand on the reins. “Is this truly a quarterly event?” The Animithe had said they brought him out every three months. Surely not.
“He must be given time to heal fully before we flog him again.”
“Flog him again! What for?”
Captain Nauters stared down his nose at Cora and snapped the reins from her hand. “It is none of your business.”
Cora growled with burning anger. “And everyone just stands around and watches this?”
“Of course,” Nauters said with unflappable poise. “The law says they must.” With that, he nudged his horse into a trot and rode away.
Cora stood aghast, her mind swirling with conflict. She glanced at Alexis Andrade, devoted Adherent of Order, dutifully carrying out the grim task of attending the wounded soldiers. Alexis’ gray eyes darkened as she hovered over one of the bodies, as there was nothing to be done for him anymore. Cora watched the cassock methodically tend each of the men in a precise fashion, as if there were a detailed protocol for field dressing a battle wound, a standard procedure from which she could not—or would not—deviate. Stupid laws. So many they strangle the life from this town…turn warmhearted souls into blind servants…torture men cruelly…strip all dignity from its caretakers and…
Kiyla retrieved Elric’s sword and returned it to his sheath, helping him walk back toward their horses. Maybe he does need to smite something.
Moffe and Cuauhtérroc sat in silence upon their mounts. The warden bristled with irritation, and the savage’s dark eyes narrowed with disapproval. Cora knew why. She was the leader of the Dragonslayers, and one of their number had stormed off into a private matter, disrupted an official process, and nearly got himself killed for it. Again.
As Cora approached, Moffe turned his horse toward the east. “It’s past time to go.”
“Elric needs help,” she replied, words pushed from her tongue with the bitter force of guilt. “I’m sorry, but he’s dislocated his right shoulder and—”
Cuauhtérroc swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. He wrapped his brawny arms around Elric and wrestled his shoulder back into place amidst a litany of grunts, yelps, and muffled curses. “We go now.”
As they retreated along the eastern road, Cora glanced over her shoulder. A pair of soldiers hoisted Gatsen’s limp body onto a pallet and lifted him into a wagon with ease. How could that man have wielded those thick posts with such strength? He appeared harmless now, almost subservient.
“Things aren’t right here,” she remarked as they approached the edge of town.
Cuauhtérroc shrugged. “All dees places are strange to me.”
“It’s not right that Gatsen is flogged each quarter.”
“It doesn’t concern us,” Moffe reminded. “And of all the places to run afoul of the law, you chose the worst.”
“Yes, I know, but something doesn’t add up. He acted with inhuman strength, and the cassock…she performs her duty with such ritual that I have to wonder whether she has a soul.”
They crossed the Rae Alikon on an elaborately carved and painted wooden bridge, where there was stationed a small guard post for travelers. The clopping of five horses across the hardwood slats echoed to the river below, and soon a well-dressed man emerged from the warmth of his shed with a pleasant smile and a small clipboard.
“Leaving Harper Creek so soon?” he asked. “Did you get a slice of Deanna’s apple pie?”
“No, but I’m certain it’s perfect,” Cora replied with a sardonic overtone.
“True, it is. So, may I have your name, Miss?”
“Cora O’Banion, and we are the Dragonslayers. We entered town little less than an hour ago from the west, and—”
“Ah yes,” the guard interrupted, “I see that you have a few penalties levied against you. You may pay me here, or return to the magistrates in the city center.” His smile faded with noticeable haste.
Cora furrowed her brow. “A ‘few’ penalties? I know of only one.” She gave Kiyla a sideways glance. How could he possibly know of more?
The guard tapped his clipboard as he rattled off the list. “One count of inappropriate language uttered at the western gate; five counts of breaking peace-bond, two counts of unauthorized spellcasting, and three counts of assuming the authority of a magistrate or city lawman—all in the town square; and one count of destruction of private property at the blacksmith’s shop.”
“What the…!” Cora exclaimed in complete exasperation, and before she could bite it off, she erupted with a loud “Cripe!”
The guard scribbled a note on his clipboard. “Make that two counts of inappropriate language. That comes to…let’s see. Three…seven…carry the one…a total fine of 642 gold stallions.”
Silence settled over the bridge like a cold fog. Cora’s jaw dropped. Moffe slowly shifted in his saddle to deliver her a lethal glare.
Elric leaned over to Kiyla. “Can I smite him?”
Kiyla gave the guard a prolonged stare. “No.”
A horse snorted and stamped a foot, and the river bridge seemed to thunder with the sound.
Cora’s mind whirled. They had just come to the aid of the city by defending these blasted laws and ridiculous sentences, saving the lives of several people, and risking their personal safety to assure that some warped sense of justice was carried out. And now they were being fined over three years’ wages! The gall! She mustered all her remaining poise and lifted her chin. “I think there must be some mistake.”
The guard frowned at his papers. “Let me check my math.” He mumbled some numbers under his breath, counted fingertips, and licked the corner of his mouth as he scanned the wispy winter clouds for an answer. “So, actually, the total is 652. I made a slight error there. Good catch.”
Moffe tossed his arms in the air and mouthed a rough epithet. So long as it remained unvoiced, it remained unfined.
“I’ve got this,” Cora said coolly. Dismounting with all the panache of a lord’s daughter, she locked eyes with the guard and sang a delightful melody until she felt the connection. It didn’t take long. A smile spread across the guard’s blank face as Cora slinked to his side. Sometimes revenge is best served hot and steaming.
The songsage placed a single finger on the top edge of his clipboard. She pushed the board down and winked.
“We’re all friends here, right?”
The guard nodded.
“And we’re just passing through town. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Very good,” Cora cooed. “What’s your name?”
“Hans,” the guard replied.
“Hans. Let me tell you what’s going to happen.” She slid her finger across the clipboard and took the quill from the guard’s hand. She tapped the feathered end of the pen on Hans’ forehead. “First, you should forget that little error you made and return the number to its original value. It’s not a good look to have addition errors on your reports. Then, you are going to give us a discount of 640 stallions because we saved your captain’s arse and the lives of half his rinkin guards. Next, you are going to stop chafing when I say your rinkin laws are a load of cripe from the Nine Hells. And you can kiss my arse if we’re going to give you a bloody mark more than two gold stallions. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, milady.” Hans’ puzzled expression conveyed a massive mental intersection between enforcing the written code and responding to Cora’s charms. With a blown kiss from her, he took the quill from her hand and hastened to recalculate the total.
Cora reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of gold coins. She placed them on the clipboard, her eyes burning. “There, that covers what we owe you.”
“Thank you, milady.”
As she turned around, Elric’s mouth hung open, and Kiyla rolled her eyes. Cuauhtérroc studied her with quiet reflection.
Cora mounted her mare and gave the reins a quick snap. “Moffe,” she said to the stunned warden, “let’s leave this horrid place.”
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