‘I give you … the scroll.’
5
After an entire year, Fletcher had almost forgotten how grisly the summoning scroll actually was.
The scroll was a single sheet of yellowed, leathery material. The orc lettering was formed by roughly raised lines on the surface, so that even a blind man could read it using touch alone. The faintest trace of Baker’s pencilled translation was etched below, barely visible to the naked eye.
‘This scroll, if you can even call it that, is nothing like the object Didric described. There is no ink to speak of, no rolled edges on either side, nor is it made of paper or anything even resembling it,’ Arcturus announced, his finger pointed at Didric in accusation. ‘It is in fact made from someone’s skin. The victim would have had the lettering carved into their back, then once the wounds had healed and scarified, the skin would be flayed from them and dried to form this disgusting object.’
There were gasps of horror from the crowd. One man ran out of the courtroom, holding his hands over his mouth. As the sounds of his retching permeated the room, others followed, tripping over themselves to get into the fresh air. Not all of them made it outside in time.
‘Guards, get someone to clean that up,’ the judge said, his own face turning a tinge of green. ‘We will take a brief recess.’ He hurried down the steps of his podium and disappeared through the side door.
Didric had gone pale, but he kept completely silent. As he stared at Fletcher, the colour rushed back to his face, his shock turning into anger.
‘Fletcher,’ Arcturus said, squatting down beside him. ‘Are you injured? Have they hurt you?’
‘I’m fine. It … it’s good to see you.’
Suddenly, Fletcher felt awkward, his words tripping from his tongue. He wasn’t used to kindness … not any more. His body shook and he felt briny tears trickle down his face. He hadn’t realised how lonely he had been until that very moment.
Arcturus squeezed Fletcher’s shoulder.
‘We’re going to get you out of here. You’re sorely missed.’
‘How are the others?’ Fletcher asked.
‘We haven’t seen Sylva since the Tournament. She was flown back to her home country as soon as King Harold got word of her injuries. He was furious, as were the elves of course.’ Arcturus paused, then took a deep breath. ‘Berdon has been thrown in jail on some trumped-up charges. They can only hold him for a few nights, so don’t worry. Didric just didn’t want you to see him. He denied you even that shred of comfort.’
‘That snake,’ Fletcher growled, grinding his knuckles into the floorboards. ‘I’m going to get him if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘Careful,’ Arcturus said, looking around in case anyone had heard. ‘We’re at a murder trial, remember.’
‘What about Othello?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Othello’s at Vocans. Atilla and a young dwarf girl, Cress, joined the academy this year. In fact, they are preparing for their first Tournament as we speak. Othello stayed on to make sure their transition went smoothly – he turned down his commission to do so. It means he will be able to lead the dwarven recruits, so in a way it is ideal.’
Arcturus looked over his shoulder as the judge returned to his seat, the green tinge gone from his face.
‘Othello misses you terribly. It is thanks to his family that we are having this trial at all. They petitioned the king to make sure you had a hearing and managed to secure you a judge that hadn’t taken a bribe from the Triumvirate. Trust me when I tell you that there weren’t many left.’
‘Wait … about the Triumvirate—’ Fletcher began to ask.
The judge rapped his desk with the gavel, turning the room silent once again.
Arcturus gave him a look that said, Later.
‘Captain, it is clear that there are some discrepancies in the story presented by the witnesses and the prosecution. Do you have any more evidence to present?’
‘I do, your honour,’ Arcturus said, striding back to the witness podium. ‘But first, I would like to ask the witnesses a few more questions. Please reply in turn – from Jakov, to Calista, to Lord Cavell. Is there anything you would like to change about your story?’
Jakov’s eyes flicked to Didric, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
‘No,’ Jakov said.
‘I can’t remember. No,’ Calista muttered, looking at her hands.
Didric stood, addressing the room in a loud, confident voice.
‘I would like to say that this orc scroll proves nothing. The memory is a fickle thing; your line of questioning simply led me to describe it in that way.’
‘Yes, that was because you had never seen the scroll before. It was not your memory I was leading, it was your lie,’ Arcturus replied, raising his voice so the crowd could hear. ‘Now answer my question.’
‘Obviously I did not see the scroll as well as I thought I did,’ Didric said in a bored voice. ‘But my story still stands. You cannot summon a demon without a pentacle made of, or inscribed on, organic material. He had a summoning leather. I saw it.’
Arcturus grinned, clapping his hands together with finality.
‘You’re half right, Lord Cavell. You do need a pentacle formed of organic material to summon a demon. Can you think of what Fletcher would have had on his person that matched that description?’
‘Wait …’ Didric stammered, his eyes flashing with recognition. But it was too late.
‘It was, in fact, the book itself!’ Arcturus announced, reaching into his pack and withdrawing the book cover with a flourish.
It was same one that had been removed from the journal Fletcher had left in his cell. The leather was dusty and wrapped around what must have been the copy of the original, but he recognised the pentacle on the front.
‘Another lie,’ Arcturus continued, shaking his head. ‘I can have witnesses flown in – Dame Fairhaven and Lord Scipio himself – to corroborate that Fletcher told them he used these two items to summon the demon. Will that be necessary, your honour?’
‘No, Captain, I believe you. Please give us the version of events as you see it.’
Arcturus turned his back on the crowd, this time directing his line of argument to the judge.
‘One night, prior to the night in question, Didric assaulted Fletcher and suffered an embarrassing defeat at his hands, losing much standing amongst his peers. The following evening, he or one of his companions spotted Fletcher going to the graveyard. Didric gathered his accomplices and followed, arriving after Fletcher summoned his demon. Seeking revenge, they attacked Fletcher, whose demon reacted instinctively in defence of his master. As the victim, rather than the aggressor, Fletcher ran away. If he had truly wished to murder Didric and his friends, he would have stayed to finish the job, once he had the upper hand.’ Arcturus paused, as if something had just occurred to him. ‘This was nothing more than a repeat of the previous night’s events. Didric attacks Fletcher and is defeated when Fletcher acts in self-defence. There is a pattern here. Consider that, your honour, when coming to your verdict.’
The judge blinked slowly at Arcturus, as if deep in thought. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his head with his gavel. The room was absolutely silent, every eye focused on the old man as he closed his eyes. The minutes ticked by, the silence weighing heavily on the room. For a moment, Fletcher thought the judge had fallen asleep, so he jumped with shock when he suddenly spoke, his eyes still closed.
‘I have come to a decision. Fletcher Wulf, you are accused of the attempted murder of Lord Didric Cavell. Please stand to receive your verdict.’
Fletcher struggled to his feet, forced to hunch awkwardly as the chain attached to his manacles was too short to allow him to stand upright.
This was happening too fast; he had barely begun to process it all. His future hung on a knife’s edge, a yawning chasm of despair on one side, an unknown future on the other. He could feel his pulse rushing in his ears as his heart throbbed, so loud that he barel
y heard the words that came from the judge’s mouth.
‘I find the defendant … innocent of all charges.’
Fletcher collapsed to his knees. He could feel Arcturus pounding him on the back with joy, hear the uproar of the crowd behind him. It was so surreal. He hadn’t realised before, but he had never really believed he would be found innocent. Yet somehow, between Othello’s family and his teachers at the academy, he had been saved from a lifetime of imprisonment, and more besides.
He looked up at Didric through tear-filled eyes, blinking through the blurry haze. It was strange, but his nemesis didn’t look angry. In fact, he was simply frowning, as if mildly annoyed by the verdict.
‘Order, order!’ the judge bellowed, as the spectators continued to yell in the background. Slowly, silence resumed, the noise dying down with each blow from the judge’s gavel.
But one sound remained. A slow clap, coming from the back of the room. It continued, getting louder as it approached them. The judge made no move to quell the noise, furrowing his eyebrows and watching with interest.
‘Very well done: most entertaining,’ came a sardonic voice.
Inquisitor Rook strode into view, a lopsided sneer on his face. He wore the uniform of the Inquisition, a long black coat not unlike a cassock, with a military flair. Fletcher felt his stomach twist with dislike at the sight of the man. Rook was a racist and a bigot, and bore a deep hatred of Fletcher.
‘I must say, you’ve outdone yourself, Arcturus. A masterful performance. For a second there I thought you had lost but, my oh my, did you turn it around at the end.’ Rook continued clapping slowly, smiling and nodding to the crowd.
‘Ahem, Inquisitor Rook. I would ask that you be seated so that I can release the boy. You have no jurisdiction over a common-law court. This is not a military tribunal.’ The judge’s voice was firm, but it had an edge of fear to it that Fletcher didn’t like.
Rook nodded thoughtfully to himself, walking past the podiums and allowing his fingers to trail along them.
‘I understand, your honour. Forgive me for intruding, but I would not remove the manacles just yet. I have another charge to bring against Master Wulf here.’ Rook’s eyes flashed menacingly as he spoke, though his face remained a picture of innocence.
‘This is preposterous,’ Arcturus growled, striding in front of Rook. ‘What possible charge could you have to bring against the boy?’
Rook sauntered back as a group of soldiers trooped into the room, carrying a set of heavy chains.
‘The worst crime of all,’ he snarled, grasping Fletcher by the back of his neck. ‘High treason.’
6
They took Fletcher to a holding cell, complete with a table, chairs – even a washbasin and soap. They removed his chains, holding their noses, then left the moment he was free. As soon as the door closed, Fletcher began to scrub his face and wash out his long, greasy hair. It was amazing to have more than a small bucket of drinking water to work with.
After ten minutes of pawing at his scalp, he moved on to the rest of his body, darting quick glances at the door in case anyone came in. As he jumped up and down to dry off, he dipped his jerkin and breeches into the basin for good measure, to wash away a year’s worth of dirt and grime. By the end, the water was a filthy brown colour, but Fletcher felt renewed.
He summoned Ignatius, and pulled the imp into his arms. His wet skin was all gooseflesh, but the warm Salamander flattened himself against Fletcher’s chest, breathing a toasty gust of heated air across his face.
‘We’re not out of this yet, Ignatius. But at least you don’t share my fate. If I die you’ll fade back into the ether, safe and sound.’
Ignatius mewled miserably and wrapped his tail around Fletcher’s bare midriff.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get out of this somehow.’ He tugged at the Salamander, but Ignatius stubbornly held on.
‘Come on, little guy, I know you’re happy to walk around buck naked all day, but I’m not. The guards would get quite a show if they came in now.’
Ignatius slipped off reluctantly and contented himself with exploring the confines of their new cell, sniffing suspiciously at the chairs, as if they might suddenly attack.
As Fletcher struggled back into his sodden clothes there was a knock on the door and Arcturus strode in, his face grim and pinched with worry.
He gave Fletcher a forced smile and said, ‘You look like a drowned rat. God knows what Berdon’s going to think when he sees you.’
‘He’s coming?’ Fletcher said, hardly able to believe it.
‘Yes. His case was right after yours. After Rook’s little performance, the judge was inclined to release Berdon temporarily to see you today, even though he must spend the next two nights in jail. A silver lining to a very dark cloud.’ Arcturus pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.
‘Arcturus, thank you,’ Fletcher said, clasping Arcturus’s hands. ‘For everything. You’ve given me back my life.’
Arcturus gave him a fleeting smile, but soon his face was dark and foreboding once again.
‘I wouldn’t speak so soon. It’s bad, Fletcher. You’re accused of killing Lord Forsyth’s troops, in support of a failed dwarven rebellion. They have evidence – witnesses that say both you and Othello were at the scene, even evidence that you harbour anti-royal sympathies. I’m told Othello was arrested a few nights ago … I didn’t even know he was here. I’m sorry Fletcher, this is all my fault. They distracted us with Didric’s trial, while they planned this one.’
Fletcher collapsed in a chair and buried his face with his hands. Somehow, the accusation hadn’t sunk in until now. Ignatius nudged his leg, growling with worry.
‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire,’ Fletcher murmured, filled with the dread of returning to his cell. ‘I remember that night. We were there, Arcturus.’
‘That’s not the worst of it. The Inquisition run all military trials and, as an officer cadet of the king’s army, you are eligible for one. Not to mention the fact that there will be a jury, who I suspect will have all heard of your murder charge, if they haven’t been paid off by the Triumvirate—’
‘Hang on, tell me more about the Triumvirate,’ Fletcher interrupted.
‘As I said, it’s Lord Forsyth, Lady Faversham and Didric,’ Arcturus replied grimly. ‘Didric met them when Lord Faversham came to heal his burns, and he found out they own the exclusive weapons contract to the northern frontier. Faversham introduced Didric’s family to the Forsyths – they were allies from the beginning, before you even set foot in Vocans. Together, the three families now run most of the prisons and weapons manufacturing in Hominum – which is why they’re aggressively anti-dwarven. They’re determined to do anything to drive them out of the firearms business. Unfortunately, they have the Inquisition and the Pinkertons deeply in their pockets, and the friendship of old King Alfric.’
‘An evil alliance if there ever was one,’ Fletcher muttered.
‘Yes, and a powerful one. They also have a particular vendetta against you. Somehow you managed to offend all three families, what with Didric’s face, foiling the Forsythled plots last year and your supposed claim to be Lord Faversham’s son.’
‘How are we supposed to get out of this?’ Fletcher asked, running his hands through his wet hair.
‘The only way we can win this is by proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are innocent, so that the jury will find it impossible to convict you. Now tell me, what do they have on you?’
But Fletcher didn’t get a chance to reply. The door burst open, revealing the burly figure of Berdon. Fletcher barely had time to stand up before he was wrapped in a bear hug, lost in his adoptive father’s scent of leather and coal-dust.
‘Son … my son …’ Berdon sobbed.
He pulled away and grasped Fletcher’s face, examining it through sparkling eyes.
‘You’re taller. Almost up to my beard,’ he said, half laughing and half crying. ‘You’re a man now. Still can’t grow a proper mousta
che, though.’
Fletcher grinned and hugged him again, unsure of what to say. He couldn’t find the words to describe how much he had missed the amiable giant.
‘There’s so much I have to tell you,’ Fletcher murmured.
‘Your friend, Othello, has told me all of it,’ Berdon replied, ruffling Fletcher’s hair. ‘A year is a long time, and I’ve been working with his family to get you a fair trial. I hear you’re quite the warrior.’
Fletcher shuffled his feet and shook his head with embarrassment.
‘Othello’s father, Uhtred, is a decent blacksmith,’ Berdon continued, filling the silence after a brief pause. ‘You’re a good judge of character, son.’
‘They’re good people,’ Fletcher said, nodding through blurred eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have made it through Vocans without them.’
Berdon took the seat behind Fletcher and began teasing out the tangles in his hair with a comb from his pocket. Ignatius sniffed suspiciously at his feet, unsure of what to make of the big man. Berdon looked down and ruffled Ignatius’s head, leaving the demon with an affronted look on his face. He spat a puff of smoke, and Berdon chuckled as the Salamander stalked off, his snout in the air.
‘Haven’t seen this little tyke in a while. I hope you’ve been looking after him,’ Berdon said.
‘More like he’s been looking after me,’ Fletcher said, warning Ignatius to behave with a thought.
Arcturus, who had been sitting awkwardly next to them, coughed politely.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but the trial starts soon and we’ve had no time to prepare your defence. Othello and his father will be joining us at the trial. They have told me what happened the night of the dwarven council meeting.’
‘Best get you cleaned up while you speak with Captain Arcturus here,’ Berdon murmured. ‘You never were one for self-grooming.’
‘Thanks … Dad.’ The word felt unfamiliar in his mouth, but Berdon’s huge smile told Fletcher he had said just the right thing.
‘May I?’ Berdon asked Arcturus, pointing at a slim knife scabbarded on his belt.