Chapter XXIV

Wren

My hip throbbed. The cold numbness of shock began to dissipate and pain settled in its place. I attempted to ignore the healer’s touch and movements. Despite my general lack of queasiness, I hated knowing what he was doing to me. I preferred refusing to consider it and focusing on something else.

Tourth and Svhen stood only a few feet away discussing the situation. Keilvey had disappeared. I wasn’t surprised. Tourth’s frustration at the news translated into pacing.

“He has to be somewhere nearby. He couldn’t have gotten very far.”

“He required a fast horse and a head start. Look around. Horses aplenty.”

“But…”

The sensation of fire seared through my hip. I screamed. My focus snapped back to my leg. Liquid pain cut deep into my flesh radiating agony like a poison. Someone grabbed my free arm, enfolding my hand and lifting my upper body off the ground. Before I gasped for air to replace the wind knocked out of me, I was leaning against Tourth’s kneeling legs.

“Breathe through it, Wren,” Tourth’s voice burrowed through the haze. I latched on to it, focusing with all my might. “It will pass.” Someone brushed back my hair. I forced my lungs to do what they were design to do despite their momentary lapse in memory.

“What did you do to her?” he demanded of the healer.

“Alcohol, sir, I just pour it over to cleanse the…”

“Did you warn her?” Tourth’s grip on my fingers tightened.

“No, I don’t usually…”

“Lesson one in dealing with women: always tell them what you are going to do before you do it. Prepare them.” Although the words were kind, Tourth’s tone made it clear that the man better never forget the advice, or else.

“Men, too,” Svhen added.

“What?” Tourth barked.

“Warn men also. That is painful. It is better to be able to prepare for it first.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Give the man a break, he just surprised me. It isn’t as though this were the best of circumstances.”

I could barely see in the falling shadows. The healer worked by the light of a heavy lantern, but its halo of light didn’t reach my head. I couldn’t see Tourth’s face, but I felt him tense.

“I still have to stitch it.” The poor healer’s voice quavered uncertainly. “That is going to hurt as well.”

“Go ahead,” I said quickly before Tourth or Svhen could make it worse.

“Are you sure?” Tourth asked.

“Let the man do his job.” Thankfully that seemed to convince the healer. He resumed working. “Tell me about your confrontation with Hawthorne. It will distract me.”

Tourth complied. As he finished, Dardon arrived.

“That Lord Portan is grumping because you two are late to the tribunal. You better get over there quickly.”

“Can she be moved yet?” Tourth asked.

“One more stitch should do it. Then only the dressing remains.”

“What happened to you?” Dardon squatted down to my level. The lantern light threw his face into relief.

“Opponent took a bit out of my hip.”

“And the other guy?”

I refrained from speaking as the healer finished off the last stitch. Tourth answered for me. Dardon whistled in appreciation.

“Done, my lady,” the healer pronounced a few moments later, pulling my under tunic down to cover the bandage. “Change the dressing daily; keep it clean, and no walking on it for at least four days.”

I opened my mouth to protest the last, but Tourth cut me off by promptly shifting me to the ground. Climbing to his feet, he yelled for Svhen to bring a lantern. “Up you go,” was the only warning I received before I was scooped up in his arms. By the time I had recovered my bearings and swung an arm around his shoulders, he was striding across the night blackened battlefield with Dardon and Svhen scrambling to catch up, lantern swinging wildly.

“You should listen to some of your own advice, Tourth. I would have liked a warning.”

Svhen reached his side at that moment, light raised above his head. I gained a close view of Tourth’s tightly clenched jaw. I was tempted to touch his face to get his attention. I pushed the thought aside. Not now.

He grunted, hefting me higher. “We have a lot to talk about once this is over. First we need to deal with Hawthorne. Then we need to discuss the future.”

We reached the King’s camp before I could think of what to say.

Dardon pointed at the center tent displaying the King’s crest. “They are meeting in the main tent. Lord Portan…” Tourth didn’t wait for him to finish. He strode up to the men standing guard at the entrance.

“Mynth and Romany for the tribunal.”

The guards bowed us inside without a word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tourth

King Orac sat in state. Gone were the trappings of simplicity. From opulent robes to ornate crown he looked every inch a king. However, his disquiet as he sat on the small throne communicated clearly that he hadn’t been born to the position. Portan, standing at his right hand, offered a sharp contrast. Ease born of life-long privilege flowed from his shoulders like the heavy brocade of his mantle. Even the tilt of his head, chin slightly elevated even in repose, clearly indicated his heritage. I suddenly realized I had more in common with Orac than I realized.

“Put me down.” Wren pushed gently at my shoulder.

I complied, carefully, but keeping an arm around her waist once her feet were planted on the grass. She made one attempt to step away from me. I felt her reflexive reaction to the pain of the movement. Thankfully she didn’t try again.

“My liege.” I bowed from the waist without releasing my grip on her.

“I understand you are one of the wounded, my lady,” Orac observed.

“I, my lord,” she replied. “I would bow, but…”

“Understood.” Orac nodded toward a heavily padded chair. “I took the liberty of preparing for your arrival. You have my permission to sit in my presence for this tribunal only.”

“Thank you, your majesty, but I prefer to stand because of the nature of the injury.”

King Orac nodded and turned to Portan as I half-carried her over to rest beside Philon and two of his brothers, waiting off to the right side. A handful of other men stood along the opposite side of the tent. I didn’t know all of them, but a few of the faces chilled me. They were men I had met in battle or known of by reputation during the war.

“How is Hiller?” Wren asked as soon as she had composed herself. Pain and exhaustion etched shadows in her pale face. I was conflicted whether or not she belonged there considering the loss of blood and my doubts that she had eaten or slept much in the past two days.

“Bruised, but he will live without any physical scars,” Iscarus replied.

Warrick leaned over to whisper. “This bastard has a lot to answer for.”

Philon silenced him with a frown as Hawthorne was led in, hands chained, broken fingers swathed in linen.

Lord Portan greeted him. “Step forward and face your fate, prisoner.” Turning to a man kneeling at a wooden table to the left of the throne, he held out his hand. “Read the charges prepared by the king’s council brought against this man.”

The man rose, vellum in hand, and read out the contents in a steady monotone.

“Twyford Hawthorne, former enforcer of Iselyn Valley, you are charged with the following crimes: violation of feudal law by pressing the residents of the domain under your safekeeping into unpaid labor and by committing an act of war against a noble of the crown in the King’s name by invading his borders and performing raids on his lands. You are accused of treason against the crown on two counts. The first was by enlisting mercenaries, a sovereign right of the King alone. The second was a physical assault upon the King himself.

“You have been found guilty of these crimes based on the evidence of a great host of witnesses. However, based on the articles of feudal agreement set down at the foundation of the Kilanore Mountains, you have been granted opportunity to speak to the charges.” The scribe peered over his document at the prisoner.

Hawthorne stood silent. His mouth drawn in a pale line against his teeth and his shoulders hunched, he glared at Wren. The hatred in his eyes made my skin crawl. I inched forward, blocking her from his vision. She must have been more weary than I guessed because she leaned her head against the back of my shoulder.

“The accused refrains.” The scribe nodded to his assistant. “So note.” The young man complied. “Now the floor opens to the tribunal. If my lord king grants, others are allowed to speak to the charges.”

“I allow,” King Orac immediately replied.

Philon stepped forward. “Wish to add to the charges, my liege.” His shoulders squared, face solemn, and noble seal hanging across his chest, he looked like his father. A wave of grief for my own father swept through me.

“Do you have the evidence to support you claim?” Lord Portan asked.

“Aye.”

Orac nodded.

“I submit that Hawthorne did murder a noble of the realm and his wife willfully and without remorse while they were unarmed and reposing within the safety of their bedchamber.”

Orac leaned forward. “Have you evidence of this beyond the battlefield conversation we both witnessed?”

“Aye, my liege, the victims’ daughter, Katerina Mynth.”

“Bring her forth.”

One of the guards at the door pulled back the canvas and motioned to someone outside. Katerina entered. She took my breath away. Dress in a heavy blue and silver embroidered brocade, she glided smoothly into the center of the gathering, chin held high and confidence in every graceful motion. She looked like our mother, all golden hair and dignity. Homesickness turned my gut. Adding to my unease, I noted Orac’s marked attention. He had a reputation for liking women.

“Your name?” Lord Portan asked.

“Katerina Mynth, daughter of the late Lord Mynth.”

“You have evidence?”

“Yes. I saw that man descend the stars from my parents’ bedchamber bloodied knife in hand the night of their death.” She pointed at Hawthorne’s bent head.

“But you told me you weren’t there that night.” The words escaped my lips before I could catch them. Once committed, I felt I had to finish. “You told me you were visiting a friend.”

Kat turned anguished eyes on me. “I spread the story because I was afraid. Tourth, he murdered our parents and laughed about it. He…” She swallowed, forcing the reluctant words out. “He said Father plead for Mother’s life, offered his own in her place. Father died thinking she would live, but he…” A sob tore through her. She struggled to regain her composure, but obviously losing the battle.

Wren shoved me hard in the back. I stumbled the first step, but continued under my own volition. Wrapping my arms around my sister I held her close as years of isolated grief finally found release. Oh, Father, how could I have been so blind. So wrapped up in my own pain that I failed to see hers. Please help me to make it up to her.

“I think we have heard enough.” I looked up to find Orac had risen to his feet. He lifted his staff of office, which resembled a club more than a staff. “I, King Justus Orac, pronounce you, Twyford Hawthorne, guilty of treason and murder. As the law requires, you shall be taken from this place and punished to the full extent allowed, death by hanging, followed by decapitation. Upon declaration of death, your body will be…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Hawthorne uttered a barbaric howl, raised his chained hands before him, and charged Wren.

I released Kat, reached for my sword, and lunged to intersect him, but Warrick was faster. The villain’s crazed attack ended on the edge of Warrick’s blade. The howl stuttered into a choking gurgle in the shocked silence of the room. The body fell to the ground.

“It is done,” Warrick pronounced without emotion.

Lord Portan knelt to check the body, but I turned away, looking for Wren.

I found her gripping Iscarus’ shoulder in an effort to stay upright. Her features had taken on a bit of a greenish hue.

"I have her, Iscarus.” I slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her good hip against my leg. If she fainted, she would go nowhere. “Could you see to Kat?”

“I will take her back to Arthus, if the king allows.”

He stepped away.

“I never pegged you for someone with a weak stomach.”

Her face was hidden by the fall of her loose hair so I couldn’t read her reaction. “It hasn’t been the typical day and I am not my usual self.” She took a steadying gulp of air. “To be completely honest, the pain is making my stomach rebellious.”

“Warn me if you need to heave. I don’t relish having to clean my gear again.”

She lifted her face enough for me to glimpse her weak smile, but she avoided my eyes.

“Your attention!” Lord Portan stood in the center of the tent. “The King has one other item of business to conduct before releasing you to your duties.”

Orac once again sat on his throne. The door duty guards were dragging away the body. Orac nodded to Portan.

“In recognition of actions proving his loyalty to the throne, crown, and person of His Majesty Justus Orac, King of the Kilanore Mountains and the valleys between, Tourth Mynth, son of the late Lord Tourth Mynth, is hearby awarded the title of his father and family previously declared obsolete by this crown, thus assigning him all the duties and privileges entailed by such a personage. Here witnessed by the Lord Avery, Lord Nornham, Lord Ryhmin, and myself, Lord Portan. Good luck, Lord Mynth, you have a hard task before you.”

Shock hit me in the chest. My thoughts froze. I would have stood there like an idiot if Wren didn’t save me yet again. She fainted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2011 Rachel Rossano

Feedback questions:

1) Is there still enough tension to hold your attention?
2) Does the interaction between Wren and Tourth strike you as believable and true to their characters?
3) How do you feel about Hawthorne's fate and how it was handled?

Thank you for reading. The next chapter will probably be the last.