Reign of Madness (Revised Edition) (11 page)

“Shiela?” Frisha interrupted in confusion.

“His donkey,” Rezkin answered flatly.

“Really?” she asked and then burst out laughing. Rezkin
decided he liked the feel of Frisha’s warm body and soft breasts pressed
against his back.

“So, we have a healer who wants to be a warrior and a battle
mage who wants to be a healer. It seems to me that some people simply need to
accept who they are and embrace their strengths,” Rezkin remarked offhandedly.

Wesson looked away for a moment and then noted, “You have
quite a bit of knowledge about mages, Lord Rezkin.”

Rezkin nodded. “Please, it is just Rezkin. And, yes. I am educated
in the subject, although I have no natural talent of my own.”

The young mage looked at him sideways and then started to
speak, but Rezkin continued. “What about enchantments or alchemy? Perhaps you
could pursue a more passive career.”

“Yes, I am quite good at enchantments
and
alchemy,
but only with certain spells,” Wesson confirmed.

“Oh, and what spells are those?” Rezkin inquired, already
having an idea.

“The kind that explode,” Wesson replied with a heavy sigh.

“So, all of your magic ends up being destructive?” asked
Frisha with concern and empathy.

“No, not all of it. I can do all of the basic apprentice
spells and a few more advanced, but nothing that would entice a patron to hire
me,” Wesson replied.

“If you are not employed, then what are you doing now?”
Frisha inquired.

“I am just wandering. I go from town to town and
occasionally someone needs something simple done. I might fix a forge or deepen
a well. Actually, my destructive magic is pretty good for those kinds of things.
Breaking up rocks and removing earth is a destructive process, and forges
naturally require the destructive element of fire. My enchantments are quite
useful for producing heat and strength, as well. But, the enchantments last a
long time, and there are only so many forges to repair or wells to dig,” the
young man explained.

For the rest of the ride back to town, Frisha asked most of
the questions, and Wesson told of the many less-than-exciting projects he had
worked on over the last several months. In one small village, the people had
not even asked for his magical services. None of the villagers were literate,
and they simply wanted him to use his skills as a scribe to write wills,
contracts, notes of sale, and birth and death certificates for the previous
three years. Apparently, it was a
very
remote village that did not get
visitors often. The mage did note that he became uncomfortable when he realized
that many of the parents on those birth certificates were of closer blood
relation than was strictly appropriate.

When they finally arrived at the town of Teurning, Rezkin
insisted the young mage join them for dinner. With additional prodding from
Frisha and Tam, Wesson gave in and agreed. The group returned their rented
horses and found themselves back at the inn just as the dinner crowd was
starting to trickle into the common room. Savory roasted venison was
accompanied by seasoned potatoes and buttered carrots. The hearty meal was more
than satisfying. When they were finished eating, Wesson stood to take his leave
and say farewell.

“I thank you all for your company. Lord Rezkin, I owe you
and Reaylin a debt, and I truly hope to repay it someday. If there is ever
anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to call on me…” he paused and
then continued, “…wherever I may be.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said,
“Perhaps I can give you the name of my former master, and you can leave a
message with him. I will make it a point to check in with him from time to
time.”

Rezkin replied, “Actually, Journeyman Wesson, I was hoping
you would stay the night. I may have a task for you.”

“Ah, well, you see, I was going to camp outside of town. I
do not exactly have the funds for an establishment such as this at the moment,”
Wesson replied with embarrassment.

Frisha looked around. It was just an average inn, nothing
special. The other lords and Shiela had all opted to stay at a separate
establishment that was more to their tastes. The young lords had implored
Rezkin to stay with them, but he noted that space was limited, and he preferred
to stay near the rest of the group.

Before Frisha could say anything, Rezkin replied. “As I
said, Journeyman, I might have some work for you. I will cover the fee for room
and board and any other necessities as part of your payment,” the young warrior
offered.

Wesson was surprised. “But, I do not even know what the job
is or whether I am capable of performing it. What if I am unable to complete
the task? I would not be able to pay you back.”

“Oh, I am quite certain you will suffice,” Rezkin replied.
“If it makes you feel better, though, I will share my room with you. It is a
miniscule expense for an extra bed, and I imagine you would not mind a warm bed
and hot bath after so many weeks of travel. The inn has laundry service as well
as a full breakfast.”

With every word that Rezkin spoke, Wesson’s resistance was
crumbling. To be honest, he was already convinced at the mention of a potential
job. Just as Wesson started to speak, his voice was drowned in a chorus of
shouts and banging from outside. A couple of guests peered out the door to
investigate, only to go bursting outside as soon as their eyes landed on
whatever was causing the raucous. Several more of the inn’s patrons scrambled
to the entry in curiosity, while Rezkin’s companions attempted to peer through
the windows that were a little too far away. Captain Jimson got up to
investigate, while Rezkin listened intently to the sounds outside.

Jimson glanced back and ordered, “Sergeant Millins, stay
with our charges and keep them inside. It might be best if they went to their
rooms. Drascon, you are with me. Rezkin?”

Rezkin was already on his feet, though. As he passed Frisha,
he looked pointedly into her eyes and said, “Stay inside.” It was a blatant
command, and it was obvious he meant it to be followed. Frisha nodded furiously
and then sat back down beside Tam. Rezkin met Tam’s questioning eyes and then
glanced at Frisha and back. Tam nodded in understanding. Reaylin started to her
feet, but Rezkin caught her in an icy stare. Just as she was about to protest,
the warrior, with his dark, icy gaze, clenched his jaw and shook his head once.
Reaylin paused and then slowly lowered herself back into her chair. “Come with
me, if you would please, Journeyman Wesson.”

Satisfied that his friends would stay put, Rezkin marched
out the door behind Captain Jimson and Lieutenant Drascon followed by Wesson.
The street that was quiet and peaceful only moments ago was now a riot of angry
townsfolk. Several were waving swords or makeshift weapons in the air, and
torchbearers fluttered their flaming flares as they called for the crowd to
follow. The irate mob flowed like a tidal wave toward the center of town.
Rezkin, Jimson, Drascon and Wesson attempted to get ahead of the wave by
slipping along its edges. When the forward progress of the crowd finally
stalled, Rezkin simply plowed his way through. One dark look quelled any
protests, and people backed off as soon as they saw the officers in their
military uniforms. Wesson, however, was nearly lost in the crowd on a few
occasions.

Rezkin, the mage, and the two soldiers finally made it to
the center of the turmoil where several heavy city guardsmen maintained a
sizeable open space. In the center was a well-dressed rail of a man with long,
black hair flowing to his waist and a perpetual scowl that was etched into his
pale, craggy skin. He wore gold rings on several of his skeletal fingers, a
white ruffled shirt, black breeches, and a black and burgundy velvet robe that
fell nearly to his feet. The man’s robes identified him as the magistrate.

Kneeling on the ground beside the magistrate was a
middle-aged man with greying brown hair and an unkempt grey-brown beard. His
clothes were almost as ragged and dirty as the man. He sported a number of cuts
and bruises including a split lip, broken nose, and swollen eye. On one arm,
the bottom arc of a tattoo peaked out from the man’s torn sleeve. He also had a
noose hanging around his neck with the loose end strung out along the ground.

Behind the magistrate lay the prostrate form of a dead man.
The corpse did not appear to have any injuries except a single knife, probably
a boot knife, sticking from his chest. The dead man was young, perhaps in his
mid-twenties and dressed in a fine silk shirt and wool pants. His boots were
well made and polished to a shine.

Rezkin surveyed the scene with a critical eye. Whatever
happened had not happened here. The body had been moved and positioned, and it
looked like the injured man had been dragged by his neck. Several guards stood
close by, but the injured man appeared defeated. Nobody seemed interested in
getting closer to the magistrate. That is, until the rather boisterous rotund
fellow appeared. He was dressed in a gaudy suit with a red and gold jacket held
together by a number of gold chains. The man’s black silk undershirt looked as
though it might burst open to expose his ample belly at any moment. His bald
pate was crossed by a few greasy hairs that were combed over in an attempt to
cover the shiny globe, and his bulbous nose and cheeks were rosy, probably from
too much drink.

“Kill him!” the fat fellow shouted. “What are you waiting
for? He killed my son! He is a murderer!”

“Murderer!” the crowd chanted.

The magistrate stood like a skeletal sentinel, his hands
clutched behind him as he surveyed the crowd with black eyes.

“Well? What are you waiting for, Jiruthis?” the angry father
shouted.

The magistrate turned his beady, black eyes on the irate man
and said, “We have not yet had the trial, Mayor Quey.”

“Trial? He killed him! He is guilty,” Mayor Quey barked.

“We will see,” stated the magistrate as his eyes roved over
the mob.

The magistrate nodded to one of the guardsmen who took a
step forward and blew into a bone horn. The rich note sounded through the
square, and the crowd grew quiet.

“We call to order this court in the city of Teurning, to
determine the guilt or innocence of the defendant, Kai Colguerun, in the murder
of Preson Quey. Let all who stand here before us bear witness to the
proceedings,” the magistrate intoned. “Let us begin.”

The magistrate turned to the injured man and asked, “Did
you, Kai Colguerun, kill Preson Quey?”

The injured man said nothing as he swayed, barely able to
stay upright. The magistrate nodded to the guard standing over Kai, and the guard
stepped forward and struck the defendant in the face. Kai fell over moaning,
but the guard kicked him in the gut yelling at him to get back up. As Kai
struggled to comply, the magistrate repeated his question.

Kai coughed up a wad of blood and rasped, “I did, but…”

The magistrate did not wait to hear what else Kai might have
said. He announced, “Kai Colguerun pleads guilty to the murder of Preson Quey.
Kai Colguerun, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging.”

Rezkin had heard enough. He took several strides forward,
and the guards did not try to stop him. He stopped in front of the injured Kai
and faced the magistrate with hard eyes. “Magistrate Jiruthis, is this how you
conduct your court?” He waved a hand at the gathered crowd. “Out here, in the
city square, after dark, in the presence of an angry mob?”

“I am the magistrate of this town, and I may choose to hold
court however and whenever I please,” the magistrate answered. “And, who are
you to be questioning me?”

Rezkin turned and offered a courtly bow, not to the
magistrate, but to the crowd. “I am Rezkin, and you will answer any and all of
my questions.” At that moment, Captain Jimson and Lieutenant Drascon took up
positions behind Rezkin, as though providing escort and protection.

The magistrate’s eyes caught on the soldiers and then
returned to Rezkin with resentment. “What is your business here, Lord Rezkin?”

“My business is this
court
,” Rezkin replied as his
nerves danced with the energy necessary for battle. “In your opening remarks,
you said we were here to determine the defendant’s guilt or
innocence
.
Do you treat all of your prisoners like this? Do you have them beaten and
dragged through the streets by a noose?”

“The man has been found guilty. He is a drunkard and
degenerate. Witnesses saw him stab Preson Quey, and he has admitted to killing
the man just now,” the magistrate stated.

“Oh, there were witnesses? I do not recall any of them being
called during the
trial
,” Rezkin remarked.

“Of course, there were witnesses. We had no reason to call
on them since the man admitted to the murder,” the magistrate scoffed.

“I did not hear him plead guilty to murder,” Rezkin
countered.

Jiruthis shook his head in frustration and replied, “You
were standing right
there
! He said he killed the man.”

“Yes, I heard that, but I did not hear him state that he
murdered the man,” Rezkin argued.

Mayor Quey marched up but stopped several paces short of
Rezkin. His face was red, and his jowls wobbled as he shook an angry fist. “You
heard him say he killed my boy! He is a murderer! It is as simple as that!”

“Is it? Maybe he is a murderer, and maybe he is not. We
cannot really say since no evidence was presented to prove that the cause of
death was, in fact, murder,” Rezkin explained.

“There is your evidence!” the mayor shouted. “MY boy has a
knife sticking out of his heart!
That
is murder!”

Rezkin cocked his head. “I am not so certain.
Why
does he have a knife sticking out of his heart?” he inquired.

“Because that man put it there!” shouted Mayor Quey.