Jindleyak Justice

Polished 16.1 — 1h20m48s — 2022/09/09

Polished 16.2 and wrote 16.3 — 1h23m06s — 2022/09/11

Added the description of Excergie at the beginning, including the statue and fountain — 1h32m42s — 2022/11/26

Polished 16.1, it’s getting there, but still needs work — 51m29s — 2022/11/30

Polished most of 16.1 — 1h36m27s — 2022/12/04

Polished 16.1 through the song. Might have finished, but have to attend the day job. Perhaps move Meriona’s apathy to a later point, after the others have corroborated Scurra’s story? — 1h12m55s — 2022/12/06

Polished 16.1. I’m quite happy with it — 36m03s — 2022/12/10

Polished 16.2. Moving 16.3 to the third book — 25m43s — 2022/12/14

Polished — 48m12s — 2023/03/12

Moved 18.4 and 18.5 to 16.3 and 16.4 so I could fit in more of Crea and Malcolm’s story, then polished both segments. Am considering breaking them off and creating another chapter called Mark and Sigil… — 33m53s — 2023/03/28

Near the heart of the square, stood the fountain of a woman in a motherly pose, with the name Excergie carved into the stone. There was an owl at the stone woman’s back, and a frog too. A slight stream of water poured from the frog’s mouth, into a large pool, bounded with red coral, quartz, and turquoise. From the foot of the statue to the edge of the pool was a good ten feet, and the water was several feet deep.

Excergie sat on a large marble bench, leaning forward just a touch, her head cocked ever so slightly. Her eyes stretched across the square, staring off at an angle. If you stood in her gaze, she looked as is she had caught you at something, as if she had overheard you saying something, and was trying to figure if she found it more funny or offensive.

For the better part of two days, Meriona glanced back at this statue and wondered at the stone woman and her unrelenting gaze. It was a long and tedious two days, especially since Naiphan and Bruck seemed to blame her for their circumstances. At one point the poking, pestering, and argument grew so loud that a couple rough-handed peacekeepers banged on their bars, insisting that they all calm down. To add to the embarrassment, a good dozen pedestrians moved through the square, and several stopped to gape. Meriona almost asked to be placed in a different cell—but felt that might create an insurmountable rift between her and the Jaded Blades.

Next to the prison was a platform with a several long wooden benches and a number of chairs. People used it for a variety of reasons, to rest, or sit and talk with friends for a bit. Many used it for their meals, or to partake in a snack—these items often coming from the large market at the opposite side of the square, or one of the many eateries that were all about.

Today, the people were using the platform for a number of trials. They started early in the morning with only about a dozen people, right after the cock crowed. Meriona couldn’t hear much of it and didn’t even realize these were disputes until the second trial was well under way. Indeed, the initial meetings were quite amicable and assorted in short order.

As the trials commenced, they seemed to grow in complexity, for the arguments stretched and the crowds grew. By the time the Sun’s rays finally pulled across the cobbled square, there were well over a hundred people gathered about the platform, arguing, analyzing, or simply observing.

After a rather tedious case in which every particular seemed to be argued, the crowd finally broke and drifted away into the square, only to be replaced by the usual lot of comers and goers, most of which were eager to have the area for their breakfast. For a time, Meriona wondered if that was all the trials the day would see. She was at once glad that her punishment would be further delayed, and also frustrated as a part of her simply wanted get on with it. She wasn’t terribly surprised that her time had not yet come. If the locals were anything like her own countrymen, the trial could be pushed back for weeks, even months, as the powers of the town haggled over her fate, drawing long standing animosities and unrelated grievances into the argument—all of which would be left out of the official proceedings, of course.

As the day wore on, more trials were held, and as they became more and more contentious, Meriona figured they might yet make time for her. Still, a thrill pulsed through her when the peacekeepers approached and opened their cage. Bruck and Naiphan were both taken aback, which did not surprise the Jay. Were they even aware that trials proceeded? On top of that, their profession did not lend itself to the courts. Likely, the only times they’d ever seen the inside of a courtroom would be as defendants; for drunkenness, disorderly conduct, or disturbing the Empress’ peace—nothing major of course, for any real issues with those of such a black profession would be left off the books and handled in the streets, as they say. Meriona offered them nothing as several peacekeepers escorted them from their cell to the platform built next to it. At least they didn’t have to travel far. She stepped onto the platform, her hands tied with thick cord, and hoped for a lenient judge, preferably one to which she might pander. By chance, did her captors have any powerful enemies in town?

Several actors and a handful of children dressed in colorful motley had commandeered the stage as the participants of the last trial shuffled off the platform, and the players of the next approached. They fooled about for the entertainment of the large audience, as the officers of the court slowly set the stage for the next proceeding.

Meriona was sat in a chair turned halfway toward a box full of jurors, and halfway to the general audience. Bruck and Naiphan were seated around her, which she didn’t feel was fair. Why was she in the middle, as if she was the leader? These men practically mocked her every word? It should be Naiphan in the middle, now that Grunther and Tadehis were dead. She thought to argue it, then decided to save her strength.

Meriona was stunned by the sheer magnitude of the gathered crowd. It’d grown steadily throughout the day, as the trials grew more contentious. Indeed, at this late hour, the square was bursting at the seams. Not wanting to consider the commoners, she turned to the jury gathered before her. They were not as the Jay expected. They were not a serious and pedantic lot—with regal apparel, exceptional grooming, and sharp eyes. Instead, they were a sordid bunch, with unkept cloaks, stained shirts, and crumpled hats that in some distant past might have been a uniform with careful stitching—if not for all the foul and dross about it. One of the jurors did not even have a hat. His hair was a wild tangle that begged for scissor and comb; fit only for rats and roaches. With wild-eyes, he twitched and fidgeted as he stared about the massive crowd of commoners that gathered before them.

Despite his weird behavior, this juror was not an anomaly among his peers. Another ducked her head and picked her nose with a single-minded vigor. Meriona watched, aghast and embarrassed, as the filthy woman extracted a sickly treasure of green and gold, flecked with the deepest maroon. She examined the prize then placed the mighty wad between her stained and jagged teeth, then glanced up to see Meriona staring. Instead of turning her head in shame, or pretending nothing had happened, she glared at the accused and challenged her with a hiss.

Chagrined, Meriona turned her eyes, not wanting to upset the juror over such impropriety.

Another of the jury was a young and disheveled man that held his bare foot in his lap. His feet were dark with dirt and filth, and despite the distance between them, Meriona was quite sure she could smell him. He picked as his grotesque toes with a bit of a stick.

Another juror looked as dirty and old as time itself. She had a menacing scowl about her face—mostly for her fellow jurors that she shoved and snapped at if she felt they were too close.

The fifth juror appeared to be nothing but a common drunk sleeping off a hangover. His face was dark red with a bulbous nose of the deepest purple. He refused any cover—except his hat, with its edge pulled over his eyes—as he lounged at an awkward angle and snored. His cloak served as a blanket over his lower half. Indeed, Meriona half expected the cloak to slip and reveal he was naked underneath.

The sixth and final juror sat with his mouth agape as he stared wide-eyed between the audience and their motley, and generally exaggerated their mood; laughing hysterically when they cheered, and cursing with vitriol when they jeered.

Meriona could not believe it. How had any of these idiots came to wear the robes of authority?. What sort of a backward people were these Jindleyak to let such simpletons sit in judgement?!

It took the manic juror several beats and half the motley poking at Meriona and the Jaded Blades before he realized that the accused now sat in attendance. As this dawned on him, his face turned red and lit with a rage. He glanced between them and the milling crowd, then leveled a finger at Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan. “Hang ‘em!” he yelled as he stood to his feet. He leaned over the slight railing and nearly toppled over it—all the while screaming. “Hang 'em all! Burn 'em up! Meat for the fire!”

To Meriona’s horror, the crowd laughed and cheered as a chant of “haannngggg ‘em!” went up among the rabble, championed by the young and impetuous juror. “Haannngggg ‘em! Haannngggg ‘em! Haannngggg ‘em!…”

Several of the other jurors clapped and clamored. To think they already had a verdict before the trial had even started! But the bailiff tugged the last juror's robes and whispered in his ear.

“Fine!” The wild-eyed juror snapped as he pulled himself from the well muscled bailiff. For a split second, Meriona thought there’d be an altercation, but the angry juror flopped onto the bench with a pensive frown, and the bailiff let the matter slide.

The unpleasantness might have ended there if the juror with the dirty feet hadn’t turned to his pouting neighbor and began to mock him with snivels and snorts. He poked the man with the filthy end of his foot-digging stick. The other took offense and slapped at the stick-wielder.

Blows were exchanged—but only a few glancing strikes landed before a large peacekeeper interceded and sat himself directly between them. The serious and placid peacekeeper sat between the jurors, calm as a rock—as if fist-a-cuffs were common among the jurors—as the gathered masses booed the quick end of the contest.

Meriona glanced at her fellow accused, and found Naiphan and Bruck equally concerned by what they had witnessed. A thick knot of fear formed in the Jay's stomach as she realized this was nothing like she had hoped. Deliberate and sophisticated men could be handled, once she caught air of their agendas—but how was she to manage imbeciles?!

The bailiff took the center of the stage, banged his staff against the wood, and brought the trial to its official start. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” he roared to the gathered crowd, “IF YOUR HONORS WOULD BE SO OBLIGED!” he bowed to the soiled jurors, “AND WITH THE CONSENT OF THE ACCUSED!” the bailiff waved a hand at Meriona and the two Jaded Blades—though he paid them no real attention. “THIS TRIAL BEGINS!”

The crowd cheered as a wave of enthusiasm washed through the square. Several peacekeepers brushed away the motley as the players gathered the last of their proffered coin. Meriona turned to her advisor, a bored and detached cleric that seemed to be capable of the job—if only he were interested. “What if we do not consent?” she asked.

The advisor glanced up, then shrugged at her question. “If you do not consent, you shall be locked in the jailhouse until you do,” he turned and stared at her. “Unless you like the food they bring you, it is best to see these things through as quickly as possible. But that is just my base opinion,” he waved. “Shall I ask them to stop? Shall I tell them you do not consent? Do you require more time?” he blinked. “You’ve tried the food. I promise it does not get any better.”

“And what of my punishment? Will it be any better if we drag things out?” Meriona asked.

The cleric shrugged. “If you have something to confess, or perhaps some bargain to make, it might be best. But if they think you are simply trying to avoid judgement, it will assuredly be worse,” he told her. “Does it work any different in your country? Does wasting the time of the court tend to reduce the severity of a sentence?”

Meriona shook her head. She knew no Jays that were more lenient after their time was wasted and their patience worn thin. Indeed, the quicker the better, with most.

Naiphan tugged at her sleeve, curious to know what was said. Not wanting to translate, she brushed him off. He turned to the cleric, but the officer only shrugged. If Meriona wanted to speak with him in Trohl, who was he to break her confidence?

The cheering of the crowd died down. Having everyone’s attention, the bailiff continued. “Let us hear from the accusers! Scurra and Elpis of the family Yockupp! Andrus of the family Trandhill! Celesi of the Bouge, and Wenifas, Priestess of the Red Crescent! We beckon you to the stage! Let us hear your charges!” he called.

Meriona sneered at the reverence given the title of priestess, as Wenifas and the others approached. As if Wenifas was anything more than breeding stock! Still, the blooded cow was allowed onto the platform and given a reverent seat not far from the scraggly jurors! If only these people knew how little a common priestess was afforded in her home country!

Wenifas sat near the defendants—until she realized both Naiphan and Bruck were trying to get her attention—at which point she moved to the far end of the platform and refused to even look at them. Meriona certainly couldn’t blame her for that!

The Jay was so focused on Wenifas that she didn’t even noticed the duke and his men were missing—until Naiphan elbowed her with a questioning stare—then it took her several beats to his figure his concern. Curious, she thought, but had no idea why he might hide.

The Bailiff continued. “I have heard your charge, and it is quite grave, but I am not the judge,” he said to the accusers. “Please, tell these fine jurors and also these gathered people, what occurred on the road to Excergie.”

Scurra stood to speak as the others sat. Meriona tried to keep a stoic face as she stared at the Jindleyak lady, now in a dress of green and silver. Even with fine clothes, Scurra looked lean and sinewy tough—but not in the used and undernourished way of the priestess. Scurra's toughness was trained and intentional. As short as she was, she was intimidating. “Your esteemed honors, keepers of the peace, ladies and gentlemen of the gathered crowd,” Scurra began as she bowed to each in turn. “Several nights ago these men and this woman—and two more of their company that have sadly perished...”

“And how have they perished?!” Someone called from the crowd. A smattering of whispers rose from the audience though no one else raised their voice.

The Bailiff banged his staff. “A valid question, to be sure, but I shall have to ask you to keep it until the lady has given her statement.” He said to those gathered at the base of the stage. “She will inevitably answer many of your questions if you simply allow her to speak.”

Scurra smiled, then began her narration once more, quickly accusing the Jay and her Jaded Blades of stalking them across the valley of the Pulbouge. She spoke of Grunther and how he was killed when he assaulted Duboha, then told of the leviathan and how it crushed Todehis. These stories caused quite a stir among the gathered masses—especially that of the leviathan. Even the jurors sat with rapt attention as she told of the legendary beast.

Questions about the great creature abounded and threatened to derail the proceedings. They were so thick that the Bailiff was forced to cut in again. “Enough of the beast!” he roared. “We are not here to judge the leviathan!” he said, then glared at the booing crowd until they left off their questions.

“None of these men would have died or even been arrested if we had not caught the lot of them trying to kill our esteemed colleague: the lady Wenifas,” Scurra concluded.

Meriona turned to the Jaded Blades. They glanced back her with the same question reflected in their eyes. Why was the duke left out of this? Why as he hiding? The answer struck her. “He’s trying to disappear,” she told them. “Is it possible that we have interests in this town? They are keeping him out of view so any of our spies will not see him.”

Naiphan and Bruck shrugged and shook their heads. If there were any agents of the empire in town, they were keeping to themselves.

“These are foreigners!” someone called. “And this crime happened across the border! Why are they charged in a Jindleyak court?”

The bailiff gave a nod and Scurra answered the question. “This priestess travels under the care of the Oak and Beast. Many of you know us, and for those that don’t, we are a Jindleyak militia from the western edge of Hearthstone with standing among our people. Since we captured these foul agents, since the priestess is agreed to see this matter settled under our authority, and since our Pulbouge brothers have seen fit to let us bring them across the border of their land; we ask the good people of Excergie to administer God’s justice in proper Jindleyak fashion!”

There was a long pause as Scurra’s words sunk in. The hysteric juror took the opportunity to stand on his tippy-toes and scream at the accused yet again. “Burn ‘em!” he glared. “Burn ‘em with fire!”

Elements of the crowd scoffed and cheered. Several more of the wild-eyed jurors took up the call. The peacekeepers moved to settle things down, but the crowd responded enthusiastically to the antics of the jurors and booed the interceding peacekeepers. As the peacekeepers settled the jurors, many among the gathered crowd broke into song.

“Boil 'em in oil!

Kill 'em with fire!

Until they're as black,

as their heart's desire!

Poke ‘em in their eyes,

and flay away their skin!

Until they tell no lies,

and repent of their sin!”

And so they sang.

Meriona sagged as she imagined this day would not pass well for her. She stared at the floor of the platform and studied the wooden grain as each of the Jindleyak party was called to witness—but the trial did not end just because the Jay was no longer interested.

From time to time some random member of the audience cut in to ask a clarifying question. Some of the questions were shrugged aside by the bailiff as irrelevant—but a surprising number were allowed. At times, Meriona wondered if they would ever finish. The longer it went, the more she found herself wishing they’d simply get it over with.

Yet, the worst was still to come, and the worst was the testimony of Wenifas. She was the last of the party to be called center stage, and by Meriona's estimation, the most dramatic and heartfelt of all the speakers. She spoke of Camp Calderhal and the attacking bugbear, of the terror and fire of that night. She told how she met the shaman, the silent redhead, and Meriona on the way to Ebertin. The Jay noted that the priestess covered up a few convenient details—including any mention of the duke—though she told of her banishment at the hands of Meriona, and other interesting elements of her harrowing journey east. Then, although she was not the first to talk of the leviathan or the naga, she was the first to weep as she told of her dead son—a story that enraptured the audience to the point that during the priestess’s pauses the rustle of leaves could be heard as a light breeze whispered among the trees.

Meriona felt the boy’s story was completely unfair and should not have been allowed, since it had absolutely nothing to do with the defendants. Claiten’s death was in no way the fault of the Jay or the Jaded Blades! Indeed, they were prisoners when the child was killed! Still, Meriona realized it’d only make her look heartless if she challenged the doe-eyed priestess with such pedantic details.

Of course, the testimony of the priestess was further exaggerated as her speech was given in Ministrian and had to be interpreted for the jury and crowd. Wenifas had to stop several times as she told of her dead boy—and the interpreter also had to pause as she too cried over the child. There were such pauses between her and the interpreter that birds could be heard across the square. Meriona glared at the two, disgusted by their kvetching.

The impassioned pleas of the priestess caused quite a stir—especially after the matter-of-fact testimony provided by the militiamen. The cynical side of the Jay had to admit that it was a smashing good piece of theater—though it meant that the lowly heifer had now defeated her twice in court! How appalling was that?!

Eventually, the weepy and near hysteric testimony of Wenifas ended. The crowd whispered and counseled among themselves as they waited for the next witness to be called. Noting an opportunity, the messy-haired juror launched to his feet with more vitriol for the accused. “HANG 'EM!” he demanded. “HANG EACH AND EVERY ONE!” He roared. “FEED THEIR EYES TO THE RAVENS! REDUCE THEIR BONES TO ASH AND SCATTER IT ON THE ROAD!” He screamed as the peacekeepers tried to settle him down.

The crowd reacted accordingly. Once again, they took up the chant. “Haannngggg 'em! Haannngggg 'em! Haannngggg em!” they sang as the juror encouraged them with wild waving arms. “HANG ‘EM!” he roared in the faces of the ever-patient peacekeepers. “HANG ‘EM!”

Several of the other jurors joined the first—though half remained disinterested, or simply oblivious. The drunk did not include himself—though he was now wide awake. He stared about the others, frightened and disoriented by the noise, as if he was the subject of their vitriol. Then, as he realized the noise had nothing to do with him, he curled into an uncomfortable pretzel and once more covered himself with his cloak.

The efforts of the bailiff and his peacekeepers was proving fruitless. Meriona worried that the mob might charge the stage and have whatever justice they might take. Since the firm stance and frowns were not working, the bailiff finally smashed the blunt end of his staff against the floor of the platform, which responded with an echoing boom, then roared at the petulant jurors. “SILENCE!” he bellowed, and stared down the more obnoxious elements of the audience as well.

The uproar died down. though a few errant calls of “Haannngggg em!” continued for several more seconds—before they dwindled and finally died away altogether.

The bailiff turned and addressed Meriona and her men. “Will the accused speak on their own behalf?" He asked. The advisor looked at the men and woman he was supposed to inform and simply offered up a shrug. He would be no help at all.

Knowing only that they were addressed, Naiphan and Bruck waited for Meriona to interpret. When she did, Bruck stood up immediately. “We did not do it!” he called to the crowd. “We are guiltless!” Several hissed and booed to hear his denial, and most the rest joined in this response, once his words were translated.

Naiphan smacked Meriona on the side. “Ask them about the duke! Why don’t they bring the royal into this?”

Meriona shook her head. “How will it do us any good to say that it was not the priestess we wanted to kill, but another man altogether?!”

“It proves they are liars,” Naiphan pointed.

“Not if we also wanted to kill the priestess,” Meriona pointed.

“Who wanted to kill the priestess?” Bruck said.

Naiphan shook his head, then stared at Meriona. “She always had her own agenda,” he realized.

“So what if I want to kill her,” she snapped. “The duke was always our primary target!”

Naiphan shook his head. “A second target changes everything,” he scolded.

Meriona stared back. “How does it change anything at all?! You never listened to anything I had to say anyway!” she noted.

“Tell ‘em about the duke,” Naiphan glared.

“If you want ‘em to know, you tell ‘em!” Meriona snapped back.

The two men stared at each other, neither wanting to speak.

“Cowards,” Meriona snorted, then turned to the Jindleyak. She stood, took a step forward, and bowed her head. “What if we should beg the court for mercy?” she began in a calm manner. “Since our capture, we were promised leniency for our cooperation, and we have cooperated in full. Now, we ask for the leniency we are due.”

“Then it is true?” the bailiff asked. “You intended to kill the priestess, and anyone else that stood in your way?”

“If we should admit to such crimes, will our punishment be any less?” Meriona asked. “If we should say that these others have given you the gist of it, will you treat us with leniency?” she continued, a touch petulant.

Bruck grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?!” he growled at the Jay.

“And what convincing lie might you tell?!” she snapped back at the Jaded Blade. “They tell the truth, and they tell it well! Let us end this and have our punishment,” she said, and pulled her arm away.

The bailiff nodded. “If you admit to your crimes, I do believe the jury will offer you leniency.”

Meriona stared at the Bailiff. She turned to Bruck and Naiphan, both of whom shook their heads. She rolled her eyes, then stared at the Bailiff. “It is more or less as they have told you,” she nodded.

A thick murmur washed over the crowd and the bailiff banged his staff. “Very well. Court is adjourned for one hour, so the jury might deliberate!”

The crowd turned to themselves, abuzz with the news, and surprisingly restrained. Meriona half expected them to start shouting for blood. She half expected the peacekeepers to escort them immediately away from the scene so they would not be mobbed—but she could not be more wrong in judging these people. Instead, the jurors were escorted to a fine table set up in the square. Immediately, there was a crush of commoners all about them, with plates of fine food, flasks of rich drinks, and pointed questions.

Meriona and the Jaded Blades were nearly ignored as they were escorted from the platform by the bailiff and a thick knot of peacekeepers. Admittedly, a few of the audience sang additional bawdy verses of Kill ‘em with Fire—but it was a slim minority, and they sang half-heartedly. No. Meriona was almost more worried about the Jaded Blades, as they shot her dirty looks. But what would they do—the ineffectual brutes?

“What shall become of us?” Meriona asked their council as they were led from the platform.

"We shall take a break in the shade,” he said. “Afterward, we will hear your punishment.”

“And what might that be?” she pressed.

The cleric shrugged. “If I could guess at how these things would turn out, there would be no reason to go through such a long-winded ordeal, now would there?” he said, as he continued to be almost no help whatsoever.

Meriona, Naiphan, and Bruck were asked to sit upon some blankets under a massive oak. Dozens of peacekeepers were gathered all about them. Almost before they sat down, commoners approached with bread, cheese, fruit, meat, and other delicate morsels. They gave food to the guards, and the guards graciously partook, then allowed them to pass, so they might offer some bits to the captives too. Seeing the quality of the food, and being quite hungry after the long and arduous trial, Meriona and her Jaded Blades grudgingly took the offered food—though they were pestered with additional questions as they ate.

The commoners continued to give them bits to eat as they asked their difficult questions. None of them were in the least bit violent, and few were even rude, though the questions were pointed and revealing. Indeed, they treated the accused quite kindly—all things considered. Meriona wished that a few of them were jurors instead.

The amount of food given to the prisoners piled up. "Why do they give us so much?" Meriona asked their guard.

The nearest peacekeeper shrugged. “They figure that if it should be your last meal, at least it shall be a good one.”

This chilled Meriona’s appetite.

The hour ended and the accused were taken before the jurors once more. Having seated the accused, the bailiff banged his staff on the platform. “THE JURORS HAVE REACHED A CONSENSUS!” he announced. A cheer went up from the crowd. “THE ACCUSED ARE FOUND GUILTY OF ATTEMPTING MURDER AGAINST A GOOD WOMAN THAT GAVE NO CAUSE! THE PUNISHMENT IS THE WORST TO BE SUFFERED UNDER JINDLEYAK JUSTICE—FOR THE WISE KNOW IT IS WORSE THAN DEATH ITSELF!” the bailiff said to the gathered crowd. He turned on Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan. “THE ACCUSED ARE HEREBY BANISHED FROM THE FREEST LANDS UNDER THE SKY, NEVER TO RETURN, ON FORFEITURE OF THEIR VERY LIVES!

“SINCE YOU ARE FOREIGNERS AND BORN TO BACKWARD WAYS,” the bailiff continued. “YOU MAY NOT RECOGNIZE THE TRAVESTY OF THIS JUDGEMENT! IT MAY SEEM A LIGHT PENALTY, SIMPLY TO RETURN TO THE LAND OF YOUR BIRTH! ASSUMING THIS IS SO, TAKE IT FOR LENIENCY! IF NOT, IF YOU WISH TO REMAIN IN THE GREATEST LAND THE EARTH HAS EVER KNOWN, BEG US FOR SLAVERY—OR EVEN DEATH—AND YOU MIGHT HAVE YOUR PREFERENCE INSTEAD!” He stared at the accused—as if they might actually take him up on such an offer.

A roar of approval went up from the crowd—though the bailiff and his peacekeepers ignored it. Instead, they stared at the Jay and the Jaded Blades as they waited for their answer.

Meriona turned to Bruck and Naiphan. Although they still glared at her, they both jumped at the chance to suffer banishment. Meriona agreed, shocked that they might be let off so lightly.

The bailiff turned to the crowd once more. “SO IT SHALL BE, AND SO IT IS!” he said and banged his staff one final time. The crowd cheered as the the bailiff signaled to his peacekeepers to escort the accused from the square.

Meriona, Bruck, and Naphan breathed a collective sigh of relief, happy to be let off with their lives, as they were led to the back of a wagon. Meriona wondered how had they avoided death with such a vindictive lot of imbeciles to decide her fate?! To think her life was hers so long as she never returned to this backward land! It seemed too good to be true—the best possible verdict—except that Gliedian would surely be disappointed. There was that to attend. But what had he expected when he gave her only four men?! Chances were he’d have no further use of her and she’d finally get to go home to Tikatis.

Yet, this was not the end of their punishment. Instead, children pressed upon the wagon, allowed to see the prisoners one last time. At first, Meriona thought they only meant to gawk. “You have brought this on yourself!” a young boy yelled, then threw a handful of hard bits at the prisoners. Meriona winced and cried as something small and heavy bounced off her cheek. Indeed, Naiphan and Bruck both yelped and cursed as they were stung by similar objects.

Meriona glanced down to see what it was these children threw at them. They were coins. She picked one up. Yes, decorative coins. Made of steel? She’d never seen coins of steel…

…and so their final punishment began in earnest. A storm of steel coins rained down on the captives and bit them in a hundred different places. It did not end as they passed under the west gate of the town. Instead, children ran after the wagon for the better part of a mile, and threw coin after coin after coin. A few of them threw the coins by the handful—yet others were snipers, and launched them one at a time. The guards ignored the protests of the accused as the coins pelted them again and again.

The barrage ebbed and flowed as the wagon bounced along the rough road. Meriona thanked the gods that she could hide most of herself, especially her face, behind Naiphan and Bruck.

The wagon pulled further and further from Excergie. The crowd of children dwindled as they ran out of coins. Eventually, they faded away altogether. As it ended, Meriona looked at her co-conspirators, dotted with red welts, and noticed they were as shocked as she was by the rough and strange treatment. Then she noticed a small sea of coins that washed across the floor of the wagon. “Oi!” she called to one of the guards as they continued down the road. “Who keeps all this?!” she asked.

The peacekeeper shook his head. “It is bad luck for any but the accused to take that coin. Indeed, it is your reward for providing the day's entertainment,” he told them.

Meriona's eyes were wide as she wondered at the wealth that swam about her. “I've never seen such a coin,” she said as she held up a steel bit. “What is it worth?”

“It is ten to one from that to the large, and ten of the large is equal to one copper bit,” the peacekeeper informed. “I imagine all of this is enough for a few nights lodging and food. Indeed, if you are frugal and the children were generous, it may see you all the way back to Ebertin.”

The wagon continued for hours, back down the pass, and to the swampy edge of the lake. At the edge of the lake, the wagon stopped. The guards had several cloth sacks for the accused, so they had something to carry the mass of coins. Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan gathered the steel coin, which was heavy indeed.

The peacekeepers stood and watched as Meriona and her two remaining throat-cutters continued west toward Ebertin and finally passed out of view with the burden of steel on their backs.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 16.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“So that's it?” Wenifas asked. “That's the last we see of them?”

“Quite likely,” Scurra shrugged. “The steel coins mark them as criminals, even among the Pulbouge. They'll be watched as long as they have it to spend, and they have nothing else.”

“And if they return?” the priestess continued.

“If they return, if they are caught, they will be sent to the mines to dig coal, or to the bogs to harvest peat,” Scurra replied. “If they refuse to stay out of Jindleyak lands, they are welcome to toil for the betterment of our nation.”

“When do you hang a man?” Wenifas asked, her eyes cruel.

Scurra shook her head. “We do not take a man’s life simply because he threatens us. If they’d managed to do some real harm, there might be a reason to hang them, but these three did little besides get themselves captured. So they are banished. Is that not enough?"

"At Camp Calderhal, their were two or three hangings a month. It was not uncommon to see someone hanged for spitting at the wrong man,” Wenifas said.

Scurra shook her head. "We are not like that. You will see. You are now among a free and loving people. These lands are like no other,” she said proudly.

“Yet, you would make slaves of them if they return,” Wenifas noted.

“It is their choice to return,” Scurra replied.

“What of your rulers?” Celesi asked. “Your governors? Are they not given greater protections? If one commits a crime against them, does one not suffer more?”

“Our rules apply to all of every station, and so we find it best to keep few rules. We are not like other nations, with many laws for the many, and few laws for the few,” Scurra shook her head. “Such hierarchies breed contempt and hostility. In Minist, the rich may rule and have more than their fair share—but they sleep with one eye open because they cannot trust those they subject. You can ask the duke, for it is true of the kingdom too—only less so—for their laws are not quite as onerous. However, with us, all are equal in the eyes of Jindleyak law, because equality breeds cooperation and community. If everyone is prosperous, then who is left to envy their brother?”

Celesi's face furrowed as she considered this. “So there are no greater protections for honored men? What of those that have made your nation great?”

Scurra smiled. “There are natural protections. If you injure a great man among the Jindleyak, his sons, brothers, and friends will hound you to the ends of the earth. If you are truly great, your friends, family, and neighbors are all the protection you could ever want—and if you do not have the respect of your friends, family, and neighbors, then how can you call yourself great?” She shook her head.

Celesi nodded. “But how do you counter chance? How do you make life fair?”

“And who are we to pretend we can make life fair?” Scurra replied. “Today fortune favors one man and dooms another, and the next day their roles are reversed. Our people understand that we are all subject to the whims of fate. We do not pretend to know the will of the gods, and we certainly do not pass judgement on unknowable things. If we have limits, then we work to overcome them, for that is the path to greatness. But we are not a people that cares for equality or fairness, as both lead to mediocrity. Instead, we want adventure, communion, and splendor! We strive to be as great as we can be, and do not mourn our fates. Is that not noble?” she asked. “Why conform to some base and low equality—that the rich and powerful shall never share? We prefer opulence, which breeds generosity, and leads to community.”

“Aye, it is noble,” Celesi beamed as she too listened to Scurra's eloquent speech. Although their ways were foreign, she longed to understand the Jindleyak, that she might be one of them. Indeed, it was all very exciting for the former apprentice with all her plans! She'd marry Toar, and they'd settle and raise their babies among these new friends! What a grand life it would be!

“Where do you find such jurors?” Wenifas asked, returning their conversation to the subject of the trial. “Considering that only two of them seemed to care about the verdict at all—and those two violently so—I was surprised by such an even-handed judgement.”

Scurra laughed. “We take the theater of a good trial very seriously—as you can tell by the size of the crowd! But you see, it is very much theater. The public jurors—those on the stage with the dirty robes and the rumpled hats—they are the least among us, and they give us the extremes of our arguments in a showy and self-important manner. Indeed, it is the crowd that are the real judges—always whispering their subtle councils and calling for a measured resolution—even as some of them chant for open violence. You see, mob rule isn't such a bad thing when the mob is educated and self-restrained,” she smiled. “In the end, it comes down to general consensus. Solutions are proposed and counter proposed among the matrons and patrons of the village, and eventually agreed upon as the luncheon continues. In the end, it is the ponderous council of the well-informed that decides these things. Those that are best respected, appreciated, and most loved are the ones that truly decide; while the others scoff, and call, and sing about oil—so they might have a good show.” She smiled.

“And they were able to reach their decision after only a few hours of discussion,” Wenifas marveled.

“Do you not see the lady, Excergie, as she stares at the jail?” Scurra pointed. “Meriona and her Jaded Blades were judged long before they ever took the stage. As for the ‘jurors’,” Scurra continued, “the jurors of the box are found in the streets. They are not wanderers, or simple men of meager ways. Instead, they are the ditch-dwellers, those among us that refuse to help themselves. Those fools bluster and make a scene to intimidate and confuse the guilty, but it is just more show.”

“The guilty?” Wenifas eyed her. “It confused and intimidated me!” she revealed. “It is only the even hand of the bailiff and his peacekeepers that kept me from crumbling completely.”

“A little pressure usually reveals a truer version of ourselves,” Scurra smiled. “It makes spotting an honest man caught in the crosshairs of civic justice that much easier. And days like this also allow the town a golden opportunity to shower a bit of love on the lowest of the low—especially the guilty. Among us, who are more guilty than the ditch-dwellers, with their petty thefts and minor assaults? That is why we dress them up, feed them good food, and beg their opinion. All of them: family, friends, neighbors, strangers, the jurors, the peacekeepers, the accused—they all mix and share their opinions—if they are willing! You see, our theory is that every trial is a condemnation of us all. Crime would not occur if we were better, if we were more vigilant—not that we ever expect to be without crime. Just as there is no perfect individual, there is no perfect society,” she noted.

“Yet, you tell it as if this is the best of civilizations,” Wenifas said.

“Is it not?” Scurra answered. “We are not perfect, yet we strive. The pursuit is noble, even if the end is unobtainable.”

Celesi nodded her head. “I like that,” she admitted. “I like it here.”

“I do to,” Wenifas shrugged. “Or at least I think I do. Yet it so strange here. Take these houses. They are large and rich, yet they grow fruits and vegetables in their yards,” she noted. “Some even have livestock.”

Scurra turned to the priestess, confused. “Are chickens and vegetables so very strange to you?”

“No,” Wenifas shook her head. “But these people all seem so fine and wealthy. They appear rich, certainly rich enough that they need not grow their own food.”

Scurra stopped and stared, confused. “And pray tell,” she began. “Why should they not grow their own food?”

“Only the poor pull food from the dirt—if they are lucky enough to have a yard. The rich are rich enough that they can purchase all that they eat,” Wenifas informed. “The Baradha never grow their own food.”

Scurra sighed. “Growing an abundance of food is one of the ways that makes us rich, so we can all afford such large and wonderful houses. But that is just another difference between Jindleyak and other peoples. We do not have poor to be suppressed and dominated. Instead, we are all rich, and we all do things to make ourselves richer. Besides, food mostly grows itself, if you know how to keep it; and the fresher it is, the better it tastes.”

Wenifas frowned, “Yet you say those jurors are homeless. How can you pretend to be part of a utopia when you too suffer homelessness?”

“There are always a few that refuse to better themselves or contribute in any real way,” Scurra said. “Even among our people there are genuine troublemakers. A few even have a fair deal of power and influence, but much of Jindleyak lands are governed quite to my liking.”

“Andrus says Hearthstone is the greatest city in the world,” Celesi noted. “Is it truly so grand?”

“Ah, the big city,” Scurra beamed though she shook her head. “Crowd that many people together, and you will always have troubles. For me it is all about the country; the towns and villages. Yet, Hearthstone is like nothing you've ever seen. In all the world, there has never been another place like it, not even in Old Tallia, before it was corrupted and devoured,” she smiled. “Ah, but you shall see. Before the week is out, you shall see for yourself.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 16.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

For several days, Brankellus had turned in circles as his prey kept shifting direction. He’d turned so much that the train of ghosts that followed were now twisted and turned all on top of each other, so much so, that there was now a general confusion about who was leading—never mind that Brankellus had no idea why they were following in the first place.

Still, the closer Brankellus got to Petaerus the more erratic the changes. With all the sharp turns and doubling back, he might have thought his sense was off—if he had not seen his enemy riding across the horizon all while his urge to go forward followed the distant horsemen.

Brankellus slogged through an open field, heading for a indent in the tree line, where a farm was burned out at the edge of the woods. It was just another tragedy, he thought, as he stepped toward the charred remains of the main house.

Many of the ghosts that had followed were now ahead of him. He tried to remember how long ago it was that they came from the burning city of Solveny and the surrounding villages and farms. Was it a week when they all started to follow—surely not a month… He began to ponder the meaning of a month and the meaning of a week. Suddenly, he felt altogether odd. He stopped and stared at the burned out farmhouse, and for a strange second his whole purpose of hunting the criminal, Petaerus, went right out the window. Instead, he stood and considered everything that had come before him, from the time of his birth on this world, until this very moment. It didn’t take long—just a flash—and he remembered back before the Ministrians, back when he was happy, growing into his life as a craftsman and father, then back before he fell in love, and before he knew what love was.

A churn of emotions caught in the ghost, as he remembered the trials and triumphs of his life. He remembered his relations, the things he’d done, and the things that had happened to him. He stood and stretched, suddenly relieved that the trudging had stopped. He felt that he could stay here forever and do nothing. His body creaked, and he could practically feel his frustration and difficulty slough off him, all made worth it by a life that he considered well lived. Admittedly, he’d been broken in the end. He felt the finale was a little harsh—but as he stared up at the stars and realized that all the gifts he was given and the good use he’d made of his time made it all worthwhile.

And just like that, everything was wonderful to the ghost. Indeed, Brankellus felt like he was floating. Standing straight, he looked down from the stars and turned to the other ghosts to see if there was anyone he recognized. Was there anyone here from his old life? He wandered about, staring at each of the others as they spoke in their foreign tongue. He marched among them, and somehow knowing that he was the one to follow, they joined after him.

He continued to wander among the ghosts, no longer feeling the tug of Petaerus. He must have marched for a couple hours, not even caring that the weather had turned foul, that aheavy rain had settled over them. He continued to he found a gathering of at least a hundred ghosts.

Suddenly strong and vibrant, Brankellus shouldered his way among the others into the inner circle. A good number of the ghosts were praying over a young man as he tossed and turned under an altogether inadequate blanket. His shelter was just an outcrop of rock, and although the man-child was out of the rain, the wind cut through him like a knife.

Brankellus turned and said to the nearest ghost, “Is he dying?” But as soon as he said the words, he realized he was talking to a Saot. It was unlikely the dead man would even understand him.

The Saot quit his prayer and turned to the Bouge. With bright eyes, he smiled and said in perfect Trohl, “the boy is suffering. It is right that we should try to bring his pain to an end.”

“If he should die…” Brankellus began as he stared at the young man, then realized what he was saying, and shook off the rest of the sentence. The boy shook, despite his brawn. “What can we do for him?” Brankellus asked, as Malcolm’s teeth clattered.

The other ghost shrugged. “Do you have no gods?”

“Where are my gods?” Brankellus wandered. He began to look up—but there was nothing but clouds above.

Less then ten feet away, a young woman was sleeping, nearly unnoticed. She also shivered and tossed. A lone ghost attended her, a pretty thing that looked a fair deal like her charge. The little angel snickered, then whispered in the girl’s ear.

Suddenly pissed, the living girl stood and seemingly glared at the ghosts. She shook her blanket, stamped toward the man, put the blanket over the top of him, then lifted the blankets and crawled next to him. The boy started to stir, and she settled him down. She turned away from him and pressed her back against him, then put his arm over the top of her. “Go to sleep,” she told him. With a sigh, the young man relaxed into her warm form.

The ghosts beamed at the young couple, smiling and excited, gasping and giggling. “He will be a great man,” the foreign ghost said to Brankellus.

The little ghost that attended the girl pulled on his shirt. Brankellus turned. “My name is Serabella, and that’s my sister,” the little angel beamed. “She’s already great!”

Suddenly, her gaze grew intense as she stared at the vengeful ghost.

“At one time, you used to be great,” she said to him, her smile gone. “You’re down the well, and you don’t even know it,” she leaned in and whispered the rest. “You have tied yourself to terrible powers,” as she said it, a crack in the clouds let through the red light of Oblarra.

Still locking his eyes with her own, Serrabela slowly backed away.

“Look up,” she said and smiled once more. “See through the grief!” She lifted her head, then shot into the sky with a mirthful laugh. Others lifted their heads and began to float after her. Some sang as they wer raised into the air. Others were silent, while a few giggled or outright laughed.

Brankellus turned to the sky. He began to lift his head, and as he did so, the red light of Oblarra caught on him and a heavy voice rang through his head. “Don’t you have a mission to fulfill?”

With those words, a fire lit upon his face. His left and his right cheeks burned where they’d been marked with the the sigil of Oblarra, and the mark of Scarad. All of the pain and misery he’d suffered through this tortured life returned. He remembered the Ministrians as they took over his village—innocuous at first, which made them appear as if they all came out of nowhere. Of course, they were not dressed as Ministrians, but in the uniforms of a Saot duchy. It was a grift, and Brankellus didn’t realize it until his family was doomed. He remembered the blood and horror of seeing his friends and family corralled, sold west to the slave markets of Tikatis, and all too often murdered. He remembered the prison at the Intruder’s Fort; Wils, Petaerus, and the blood and horror of his own death—all compounded and insulted by every skinned knee, stubbed toe, and poked eye he’d ever suffered. He screamed vengeance at the world and renewed his obligation to the dark gods.

He lingered for several minutes, before the sense of his prey settled upon him once more, then he turned east and marched. He didn’t care if anyone followed—though a number of cold and vengeful dead kept pace, more than half of all that followed before.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 16.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Crea woke early and refreshed, even before the sun came up. The storm had broke sometime in the night, and she was warm and comforted—until she realized that someone had his hands about her. With a shudder, she pulled away and slipped from under the blankets.

Something had shifted in the night, and for the first time since Crea left her family’s farm, she felt as if she had a purpose—a purpose fueled by a righteous anger, by the indignity visited upon her people. With a heart full of rage, she took the decorative sword she stole from the Gaur officer and attacked a nearby tree.

Slowly, the sun came up, and as it rose, Crea hacked and slashed at the cedars all about. As she abuse the trees all about, a lather slowly soaked her clothes.

Malcolm woke with a start. For a split second, he thought Crea was being attacked. He jumped up, sword in hand—then relaxed as he realized her enemies were all made of wood. At first, he thought to go back to sleep. Instead, he watched the girl, flailing away, and decided it might be best if he gave her a few pointers. “That works against the trees,” he began. “But that kind of abandon won’t do much good against anyone that knows the least bit about fighting.”

Crea turned and glared at the young silver fish. “What do you know about it?!” she snapped.

“Not much,” he admitted with a shrug. “But from the looks of it, I know a bit more than you.”

Crea huffed and turned back to the evil cedars.

“You’re doing your weapon no good by assaulting these trees,” Malcolm told her. “You are not the only one doing damage, as the trees are blunting your edge.”

Crea stopped. “Well,” she began as she stared at the postman. “If that is not the way of it, how should I continue?”

“Go slow to go fast,” he said. “Study your weapon. Swing it about without trying to do any damage, just to feel its weight and balance.”

Crea waved the weapon about, then shrugged. “What am I supposed to be feeling?”

“Here,” Malcolm approached, offering his own sword. “Swing this one about, and feel how it is different. Heavier yes? With a balance more to the handle?”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Now, the weight of that falchion is more toward the point, in the heavy curve. See? It is harder to change the swing, but has more momentum.”

Crea nodded.

“Now yours is more a slashing weapon, with one sharp edge—though it has a decent point; while mine is a piercing and a slashing weapon, with a very fine point and two sharp edges. Mine is made to punch to holes and also to cut,” Malcolm explained.

“Does that make yours better?” Crea asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “It makes it different. It’s better for me, because I can heft it, and practice with it often. For you? Perhaps it is just heavier. Although it is more damaging, it is also more tiring.”

“Well, I thank you for your pointers,” Crea said as she put her sword in it’s sheath. “Now that you are up, perhaps it is best if we are on our way. Then we shall talk about this as we walk. We have a long way to go, you know.”

“And how far do you think we are from High Plains?” Malcolm asked her. “Two, three more days at the most?”

“Perhaps we shall never know,” Crea said. “I think it is better if we make straight for Land’s End.”

“Land’s End?!” Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat. He thought to argue, but realized he’d be arguing against his own best interest. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why she’d prefer a straight road when only yesterday she’d been set on going to High Plains. Whatever her reason, he decided to let her have her way. She was bound to get it anyway.

For her part, Crea didn’t feel like explaining. She didn’t want to tell him of the dream she had that woke her early. She didn’t want to speak of a newfound dread of High Plains that sat in her gut. She wasn’t afraid for the town, only herself. Besides, what did she have in High Plains? Her home was in Solveny, and her family home was also gone. Now, any one place was very much as good as the next.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The people of High Plains were the closest thing Crea had to relatives, now that her family and all the people of Solveny were gone. Yet, something was off, and she knew that going to High Plains was more trouble than she could manage just now. She felt repulsed. Something had happened in the night. Something had unsettled her, or convinced her—some spirit—and she only hoped that the spirit meant her well.

As for the ghost of Serabella, she returned from the sky, content to follow her sister, that she might help guide her path. She whispered to her sister that it was best if she hid the fancy sword, knowing that if she covered the weapon Crea might decide her own destiny—but if the sword was left to view, it would forge its own path and carry her along it. Yet, despite the whispers of her sister, Crea not only refused to cover the weapon, she proceeded to flaunt it.

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