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2: FAIRE TRIAL

  TWO

  FAIRE TRIAL

  “Behold!” shouted a villager holding up a dirty sack with something moving inside, “I caught myself one of the terrible n’ wicked familiars of the Wizard!”

  He pulled a mangy black cat out of the sack, lifting it up by the scruff of its neck for all the crowd to see.

  “This foul creature has been skulkin’ round our village fer weeks now! He’s been stealin’ our food, scratchin’ n’ howlin’ at everyone and given me the evil eye, he has! He musta’ been the spyin’ eye of the Wizard, getting' ready to do Heaven knows what to our fair village!”

  The cat howled, then turned into a flurry of hissing, scratching and flailing furry limbs. The man screamed in outrage, then shoved the animal back into the sack where it continued its furious struggles to no avail.

  The Inquisitor motioned to one of his servants.

  “Yet another piece of evidence that proves the malicious nature of this Wizard, yet another link in the chain that shows his flagrant abuse of arcane magic to inflict harm and injury upon the innocent,” declared the Inquisitor as a servant climbed up onto the wood pile, using rope to tie the sack closed and hang it from the neck of the Wizard.

  The cat continued hissing, now inflicting his anger on the Wizard he was bound to, regardless of how the sack hampered his efforts.

  “I thank you for bringing this hideous and hateful creature to me, where it will burn alongside its spiteful master,” said the Inquisitor with a smile, his arms spread wide, “your village thanks you for bringing this sinister and nefarious crime into the light, where we can purge ourselves of the sickness that would bring us low.

  Whatever the Wizard had to say in response to these charges was lost beneath the cloth that still gagged him.

  “Alas,” lamented the Inquisitor, “our time here is limited, unlike the evil this miscreant intended to commit. The food has been eaten, the water drank, the wood has been stacked. We shall hear no more accusations against this villain, even with how undoubtedly true they have all been. The weight of evidence and argument is absolutely overwhelming. The Shining Lady will be pleased that our actions are guided by Righteousness.”

  The villagers let out a low groan of sadness, before breaking up to get ready for the final act. There were several of them who were carrying bags and sacks of their own, filled with more proof and evidence. There had been almost half-a-hundred of these items, most of them small animal bones that were obviously evil in purpose, wood branches supposedly in an evil shape, rocks that had managed to sneak into homes and take people by surprise with their silent and stoic, yet still ominous and evil aura. Some of the most promising examples were tied with string and also hung around the neck of the accused Wizard where the sack-cat had joined them, the rest tossed onto the wood pile.

  The cat had been a good capstone to the parade of evidence, the only living creature in the seemingly endless arsenal employed against the village by the accused. There was a dead crow that a villager had sworn up and down had been alive and swearing when she found it. The Inquisitor proclaimed that the Wizard had probably murdered the bird to stop it being a witness at the trial, another crime laid at his figurative feet, along with the dead bird tossed before his material feet.

  This show-trial had taken a long time, long enough for day to turn into night and the wood pile to have grown to the size of a cottage. The rain hadn’t stopped one bit since they started. The mud in the village center was almost knee-deep now in the worst parts, with large puddles threatening to grow further in size and turn it all into a small lake. The Inquisitor knew the rain would soon get worse, he wasn’t eager to measure how fast his bonfire would burn under a true downpour, even with all the oil he had brought.

  Several guards and servants of the Inquisitor carried covered torches with them, standing at the edges of the village center, as if cautious about igniting the wood pile. Their flickering firelight danced across the wet ground and shimmered in the puddles. With a clouded night sky, these torches were the only light to be had, long shadows being cast onto the forest beyond.

  The Inquisitor stood with arms crossed, watching the final preparations be made, oil barrels and flasks nearly at the ready, when a servant whispered into his ear. Pointing to the darkness beyond the village, to the path from where they had climbed only hours before, the servant fearfully announced the arrival of one last guest invited by the Inquisitor.

  There, at the edge of the village, stood an ominous figure, half-hidden by trees, half-hidden by night. The distant torch-light could give only the hint of a person, the outline of a shape.

  And what a peculiar shape they were.

  As they slowly stepped forward, the villagers quickly began to quiet themselves, all eyes turning to this newcomer, hearts filling with more than a hint of fear.

  They were humanoid in shape, cloaked in dull, red cloth that hung loose and obscured their form. With rope made from a dark, coarse material that could have been hair, a large, iron sigil hung from around their neck, the familiar shape of a winged, flaming sword set in a heptagon. Countless other trinkets of brass coins, wood carvings, long strips of parchment and scrimshawed bone clattered and fluttered across their robe. From the end of billowing loose sleeves came gauntlets of dark, scalloped metal. These hands were held close to the chest, carrying a heavy, metal thurible suspended by small chains, blue-white smoke softly streaming out of it.

  As they continued walking forward, unseen feet and red robes sinking almost knee-deep into the mud, their pace never slowed, their balance never wavered. As each new step sunk part of the robe into the ground, then pulled back out, no trace of mud stuck to the cloth, no hint of dirt or grime could seem to besmirch it.

  The face of this figure was hidden beneath a red, conical hood, so tall it would have been comical in better times. The cone-hood was cloth, but stood straight, perhaps two feet in height above the neck. The front of the hood had two small, shadowed eye holes, otherwise faceless. Nothing could be seen of what lay beneath. Their head and tall hood remained still, their face staring forwards.

  If any part of this presentation was intended to intimidate, thought the Wizard, it was certainly working.

  The figure stopped just before the Inquisitor, having walked in a straight line toward the wood pile, hidden eyes locked to the Wizard.

  The Inquisitor smiled once more, hands crossed behind his back.

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  “Let it not be said that we are without reason,” he shouted, full attention on him once more, “we have heard testimony, we have seen evidence, we have considered it well, but before the trial is finished…”

  He held out an outstretched hand, and a servant handed him a long, iron rod.

  “…We should hear from the accused. Remove his gag. However!” he proclaimed, swinging his arm around, pointing the rod at the Wizard, “lest you attempt to cast a spell and bring harm to these proud people, I will tear out your tongue and feed it to the flames myself!”

  The villagers gathered round the village center, the rain doing nothing to dampen their curiosity. A few of the guards drew close to the wood pile, pointing the edge of their halberds towards the Wizard while a couple of servants clambered up to remove the gag.

  As the Inquisitor took out a small silver rune-brand from his coat and began screwing it to one end of the rod, he started his final interrogation, eyes focused on building his tool, not even looking at the Wizard.

  “You stand accused of Wizardry, a most vile and villainous crime that calls for execution and death, how do you plead?”

  The Inquisitor turned back around, pointing the rod at the Wizard. The crowd leaned in slightly, silence filling the village center as they waited with baited breath for frustrated screams of rage, begging for mercy, something exciting.

  The Wizard, bound to the stake by hands and ankles, clothing filthy with mud and wet with rain, sack-cat and dubious trinkets hanging from his neck, just gave a slight sneer.

  “Just get it over with. I doubt the flames will pain me much more than what I felt listening to this.”

  The crowd roared in anger, some of the guards holding a few back. The villagers booed, they jeered, they began throwing wet clods of mud. Most of it missed, a few hit. One throw managed to slap against the sack containing the cat, leading the feline to hiss at the Wizard almost as loud as the people.

  “Enough!” shouted the Inquisitor, quieting the crowd, “you will all have your justice soon, I have one last task to accomplish.”

  Holding the rod with two hands and stepping closer, the Inquisitor pressed the glowing rune into the chest of the Wizard.

  “Tell me,” asked the Inquisitor, “what is your name?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Wizard. Faint trails of smoke came from where the rune touched his chest, but it did not hurt or burn.

  “You lie!”

  “It’s the truth, as idiotic as it sounds, I do not know my own name. I can’t remember it.”

  “Let me try and help you with that,” said the Inquisitor, pressing the rune in a bit harder, now shouting the question, “tell me, Wizard! What is your name?”

  “I told you! I don’t know! I can’t rememb—”

  Suddenly, the rune was ablaze with a blue light, smoke beginning to pour off of it.

  The Wizard began to clench in pain, a terrible, new headache seeping through his head, even worse than the one from his bruised forehead. Still the rune did not hurt him, but it felt like rivers of ice-water were flowing through his mind, reaching for something—

  “My name!” shouted the Wizard, gasping in shock “my name is Leihant von Geissler!”

  The Inquisitor pulled back the rune and rod, the Wizard’s head slumped over. The crowd jeered and cheered. The sack-cat gave out a small howl.

  “Well, looks like we can get some answers from you, after all!” laughed the Inquisitor while looking at the rune. It was back to its regular glow, but slightly diminished.

  He lifted up the rod again, pressing once more into the Wizard.

  “Why are you here?” asked the Inquisitor, shouting the question.

  “I don’t know,” said the Wizard, head still slumped over.

  The rune lit up again. The Wizard shook in pain.

  “I’m here because the villagers knocked me out and dragged me here!”

  “Hmm. Let us try that again. How did you get here?”

  This time the Wizard was not subjected to pain, but the words flowed out of his mouth all the same.

  “I swam to the lake shore, then I was knocked out and dragged up here.”

  The Inquisitor rolled his eyes in disgust.

  “And before you swam to the lake shore? Where were you?”

  “I was… I was in a box,” said the Wizard, embarrassment and confusion in his voice, “I woke up inside a box at the bottom of the lake. I thought I was buried alive until the water started seeping in. I managed to swim to the surface, then to the lake shore.”

  The Inquisitor put a palm to his own face, his other hand holding up the rod.

  “This is worse than pulling out teeth. And I would know.”

  He stayed silent for a few moments, thinking, then smiled.

  “Alright. Let us speed this up. Is it absolutely true that you have lost your memory?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then pray tell, foul Wizard, how is it that you could tell me your name when I asked you again?” asked the Inquisitor with a stern shout, pushing forward with the rod.

  The Wizard gasped as the rune flared up once more. Blue light cast his features in a harsh cold light, bright enough to shine through the sack and show the cat’s dark outline curling up in fear.

  “I hypothesize!,” said the Wizard through clenched teeth, eyes rolling back in pain, his voice unnaturally calm, “that the magical item you have in your hands can not only compel a subject to speak the truth as they know it but also forcibly drag an answer out of the subject’s mind with the application of focused intent in search of deeper answers! However! I further hypothesize that usage of this more advanced method of questioning drains the magical item of charge based on the reduced luminescence of the rune after the focused questioning!”

  The Wizard had nearly doubled over in pain, kept standing only by his bound hands and ankles. Small drops of blood leaked from his nose. He was now panting and gasping for air.

  “I also believe…” said the Wizard, eyes unfocused and voice hoarse, “…that the deeper in the mind the question draws the answer from, this advanced method of questioning inflicts increasing levels of pain and internal damage to the head.”

  The Inquisitor had a cruel smile.

  “Well, if I had not been certain that you were a Wizard before, I would now. Thank you for the insight you have given me, even from a source as crooked as you.”

  The Inquisitor held the rune close to his eyes. The glow had been much diminished after that last question.

  “Well, it appears we have one last question to ask,” declared the Inquisitor, turning to the crowd and throwing his arms wide, “any suggestions?”

  The villagers roared, shouting out questions.

  “Ask him why he hates us so much!”

  “I want to know if he knows that we know he’s going to Hell after this!”

  “Ask him why he made my baby so ugly!”

  The Inquisitor listened to them all with a smile, thinking to himself while looking closely at the rune. He had his own ideas what his last true question should be.

  Then a servant whispered into his ear. The Inquisitor nodded.

  “Silence! I now know what to ask! There is still one unanswered question that must now be questioned and answered!”

  One final time, the rod and glowing rune were pressed into the chest of the Wizard.

  “Where is your spellbook?” asked the Inquisitor in a calm voice.

  The rune kept to its glow.

  “I don’t know,” replied the Wizard, still leaning over and held back by the rope, “I have no idea. I can’t remember.”

  “Every Wizard has a spellbook in some form. You are a Wizard, therefore you must have a spellbook. It is simple deduction. So tell us,” asked the Inquisitor, his voice almost screaming in rage, “where is your spellbook!”

  For a few heartbeats, the rune shined bright like the midday sun. It was almost blinding in its blue brilliance, before slowly diminishing and darkening as it compelled the Wizard to speak.

  “I gave it to Eleanor!” screamed Leihant, furious smoke pouring out of the rune and then his mouth, the light glowing through his eyes, “I was dying! I gave it to Eleanor Lessard! So much death! She was only a child, she needed to escape! She was the Princess of Eldimyr! The book was all I had left! One last gift!”

  Then the rune turned dark.

  Leihant fell silent, as did the crowd. Thin streams of blood fell from his mouth and nose, droplets running from his eyes. Were it not for his slow breathing, he would have looked a corpse, sagging over.

  The Inquisitor pressed the rune to Leihant’s chest, one last time.

  “Who is this Eleanor Lessard?”

  The Wizard gave no answer.

  The Inquisitor stepped back, unscrewing the rune from the rod and returning it to his coat.

  “Well, it was worth a try. Make sure to record what he told us, they’ll want a written record,” he said, lazily waving his hand towards his servants.

  The villagers were silent, afraid of what they had seen. The Inquisitor clapped his hands together.

  “No more of that! Break out the oil! Hand out the torches! We know his name! We know his crimes! And we know what needs to happen to Wizards, don’t we?”

  The crowd were all smiles again, they answered with a loud cheer, all together.

  “All Wizards must die!”

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