Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial
John Klobucher
Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial
Tales of tongues unknown
Translated by John Klobucher
(he wrote it too, but don’t tell anyone and spoil the fun)
Copyright 2015 John Klobucher
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Cover art by John Klobucher
Table of Contents
Episode 8 ~ The Trial
About the Author
Episode 8 ~ The Trial
Ho-man knew his duty.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Your attention please… The court of the Keep is now in session. People — prepare for judgment day!”
The servants scurried to whisk away any sign, every crumb from their feeding frenzy. Juxtyn Tymbly stopped to sop up the last drops of sweet hospitality.
The battle tent was suddenly spartan.
Fyryx the Redder Than Ever glared impatiently until they were done. Then he donned a tall leather judge’s hat and spat out his instructions.
“Treasured guardsmen, honored eldest — I trust you’ve left room for dessert! Just be prepared for something sour, not sugar-coated. Bitter truth…” He sneered at the near wall lined with folk. “For there’s hard evidence, more than a trace of toxin in our blood again, an old familiar taste of poison spoiling our body politic, friends. Worse than arsenic spiked with mace or nightshade laced with angel’s bane. A venom I dreamed was finally gone…” His fiery eyes lit briefly on Minyon. “And not the spark of a new sedition, fueling a fevered anarchy…”
He paused, though only long enough to gnash his teeth and look away. Then he shook as if trying to stir from a nightmare or force a rude awakening.
“But we’ll nip it in the bud, I promise — rip out this weed by its very roots. The antidote is in our court… a medicine called punishment.”
The justice’s icy stare caught the stranger.
“No better balm than a Guard at arms, or salve as sure as the mud of our pit. It can cure outbreaks of crime in no time, and we’ll prove it once again.”
All of a sudden a long furry vine rained down from the smoke clouds overhead, unfurled from the billowing ceiling dome. At the end, a heavy slab of headstone hung from a twisted hangman’s noose.
“Let’s get down to business,” growled Fyryx. “I’ve had my fill of this whole song and dance.”
He pulled a blade from behind his hassock. “I’m cutting the chord at last!”
And he swung.
The dead weight was decapitated and fell to the ground with a loud, round thud. The rope tied up to the roof flew off and the tent’s great dome blew open wide.
Then all it took was a gust of wind to clear the hall of its lyrical air, to kill its soundtrack, the chamber’s music. Everything left was cut and dried — plain as day, black and white, simple as that.
The brother Treasuror squinted at the high noon sun now pouring in. “Welcome to my new arena, where brutal truth is the only game. Look around. You won’t find a shadow of doubt here. Not one shade of gray. No rhyme, just reason.”
He pointed his ironwood sword to the heavens. “Mark this as the day the muses died.”
Ho-man shrugged but followed orders, faithfully noting the dark decree. Then he added “That’ll be the day” at the bottom of his diary.
When he ran out of leaf he turned over a new one. And…
“Oh boy!”
He looked in disbelief. Something within the log book shook him. “It’s a sign or prophecy.”
Then he remembered his tall teen friend. “Psst, hey buddy…”
The big bopper listened.
“Ever reversed a lyric curse? Defended against dark arts and crafts? I was just hoping with your lucky charms, you might sport a magician’s hat.”
“Sorry, left that and my wand at home. The closest to magic I come is a spell-check.”
“Close enough! This spells conundrum. A riddle, Tom Cat. Take a look…”
Ho-man ripped a page from his notebook and thrust it at the stunned John Cap. The stranger squinted at it a moment, mapping its bold runes in his mind.
Meantime the clerk droned on in the background, offering answers of his own. “I think it’s a forecast of what’s to come — a darkness on the edge of town where poet is outlaw and bard’s desperado.”
Odd, but John Cap had it too, the sickening feeling of climate change. A sense that the seasons had slipped out of rhythm. A fear that their meter was out of time.
The torn leaf was written in deep dark plum ink, a purple prose almost familiar to him. He read it out loud like an old incantation…
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THIS VERSE LEFT
INTENTIONALLY
BLANK
