By Lynn LeFey at http://www.d20forge.com

Wergild: Chapter Twenty One: Judgement

Chapter Twenty One of a complete Eberron Novel: Orgok faces Lord d'Orien.

Chapter 21: Judgement

Murias stood vigilant in the waiting room of the Royal Courts.

“Alright you three, let’s go,” he demanded.

“Where are we going?” Mith asked.

“In front of the inquisitors.”

Brig elbowed Murias, making a little hand motion to signal the priest to drink his concoction. Murias withdrew the vial and drank. It tasted like honey. The three were taken upstairs where several members of house Orien waited, along with several of Aundair’s nobility. In addition to these, a single priest stood, wearing fine robes marked with the symbol of the Sovereign Host.

Murias bowed before the priest, who returned the greeting.

The high priest chanted, and held a silver disk, also inscribed with the symbol of the Sovereign Host.

“Aureon watches, ready to scribe your testimony upon the record of the world,” the priest said forcefully. “Before his mighty gaze, no one shall bear false witness. So mote it be!”

All in the room bowed their heads when the priest spoke, and now they raised them again. One of the Aundair Royals made a short nod and stepped forward.

“I am Nazlash ir’Wynarn, Representative of the Knowledge Ward of Fairhaven. I am here to hear your witness against Ekhenas d’Orien.”

A middle aged man in Orien uniform stepped forward next.

“I am Fenisoth d’Orien, Assistant Representative to Fairhaven. I am here to bear witness to your testimony.”

The senior priest gave a short bow.

“I am Cauthias Eshurian, High Cannon of Insilthar, servant of the Sovereign Host. I will bear witness to your words.”

Brig found himself very nervous, suddenly standing around a collection of such powerful people, and seemingly with the Gods watching.

“I am Murias of Wyr, servant of the Sovereign Host.” Murias said, bowing slightly.

He looked down at Brig, who stood silent. The priest nudged the nervous dwarf.

“Oh. I’m Briganius of the Hindirogin Clan. Nice to meet you all,” he said with a nervous smile.

“I am warforged,” Mith began. “I have been named Mith, by Brig. Briganius.”

The gathered individuals looked at each other.

“The testimony of a warforged has never been used in our courts before,” Nazlash said.

The tone was not hostile, only one of slight confusion. He pulled the other nobles aside and discussed the matter briefly.

“We agree that the Treaty of Thronehold gives you the right to bear witness in our courts, Mith warforged. If you are satisfied with your inquisitors, we shall begin,” Nazlash spoke.

Murias looked at his comrades, and seeing no concern of wrongdoing, decided to speak for the whole.

“I accept you as fair judges, for myself, and my comrades.”

Fenisoth sighed, took a breath, and began.

“Alright, what’s this matter about then?”

“Several years ago, a company of fifty hobgoblins marched on the stronghold of Otharaunt. Lord Ekhenas was in the area with twenty longbowmen, and when the hobgoblins took the stronghold, he made a retaliatory attack, killing or capturing all of the invaders,” Murias began.

“Yes, we are all aware of the heroic deeds of Lord Ekhenas d’Orien and his men on that day,” Fenisoth said coldly. “Get on with it.”

“However, the first document we have is a contract from Ekhenas to hire the hobgoblins used to assault the castle in the first place,” Murias said.

Murmurs ran through many of the gathered Aundair nobility at this revelation.

“The second document is a bounty that d’Orien placed, when the last hobgoblin to participate in the raid managed to evade death on a prison galley in the Straits of Shargon, where he was being held as a slave, even though his actions as a mercenary against a recognized government clearly should have made him a prisoner of war, and therefore, should have been set free at the war’s end.

“He placed that contract for no other reason than to kill one of the last witnesses to his crime.”

The inquisitors were silent for a moment.

“We have verified that these are in fact marked by house Sivis, but that only tells us that they are copies of original documents,” Nazlash stated. “Who created the originals?”

“We got them directly from the record hall of house Deneith in Rhukaan Draal,” Murias said.

“And they never left your site?” Nazlash pressed. Murias looked at Mith.

“They went from the hand of Athaross d’Deneith to our comrade Tef, to my hand, and never left my person, sir,” the warforged said.

For the first time, Murias thought that Mith was speaking with a nervous quiver in his voice. He found it amusing.

“What exactly is it you want from the courts?” Cauthias asked softly.

Murias looked the priest in the eyes.

“I expect Ekhenas d’Orien to be brought up on charges of murder for the death of Lord and Lady ir’Othar, since it was he who ordered the attack that led to their death. In addition, I wish to ask for a writ to be made to force him out of Otharaunt, giving control over to whatever personage the Aundair nobility deem worthy.”

Murias paused for a moment.

“There are two other matters,” he began.

“As if these allegations weren’t enough already,” Fenisoth fumed.

“Please continue, Murias,” Cauthias gently suggested.

“Thank you. Two other matters: First, the younger Lady ir’Othar, charged to take command of Castle Otharaunt is dead, and has been for years. Ekhenas d’Orien put a changeling in her place several months before the attack on Castle Otharaunt.”

“How do you know this?” Nazlash demanded.

“It was the changeling that brought this entire scheme to my attention.”

“And where is this changeling now?”

“I’ll get back to that in a minute,” Murias steered the conversation, “because it directly relates to the second matter; the last hobgoblin to survive. He is now the recognized chieftain of his tribe, and by the old laws of Galifar, is going to demand wergild for his dead kin. Although, under the watchful eyes of Aureon, I must speak my heart. It is both his right, and possibly his intent, to seek blood revenge for Regent d’Orien’s actions.”

The members of house Orien broke into a clamor over this news, and loud arguments broke out between them and the nobles of Aundair. Murias stomach felt tight and his mouth was dry. The news was out, and it would now be a mad scramble of legal maneuvering, and political positioning between Aundair and house Orien.

The arguments finally settled enough that Nazlash was able to bring order again.

“And the last piece that you skipped over, priest. What of the changeling?”

“She accompanies the hobgoblin to Otharaunt. I have a request of the Aundair nobility that for her part in uncovering this plot, the changeling be exonerated of any part she may have played in it. She was only a child, being controlled by…” Murias locked eyes with Fenisoth d’Orien. “A brutal, manipulative, fiend.”

“That is enough, Murias of Wyr. Bad enough that I have to sit through these horrid allegations, without you heaping insult upon my family,” Fenisoth screamed.

“Silence!” Murias bellowed, shaking the windows. “I stand with the eyes of Aureon upon me. I speak only the truth. Can you say that house Orien had no knowledge of this plot until now?”

“I am not on trial here,” Fenisoth said coldly.

“No, but the good standing of house Orien in the kingdom of Aundair might be,” Nazlash ir’Wynarn reminded him calmly.

“House Orien did not… give sanction to such actions,” Fenisoth said coldly.

The slight pause stood like a monument to the truth. He had not been able to directly answer the question, and anyone with half a mind could see it.

“Might I be so bold,” Murias again broke in, “to suggest a course of action? House Orien has the capacity to send all the participants in this trial directly to the castle in question instantaneously. Taking any other course of action risks house Orien sending their people ahead to spirit Ekhenas d’Orien to safety, or destroy evidence.

Nazlash looked to Fenisoth.

“House Orien will see to the immediate transport of the three of us and the three witnesses to Castle Otharaunt.”

“That is an extremely expensive service, Lord ir’Wynarn. Do you expect house Orien to simply give it away for free upon your whim?” Fenisoth asked incredulously.

“I think to save face, you had better.”

“We should at least summon Draziu Cireneg, who should also be at these proceedings.” Fenisoth demanded, as the others began rallying to action.

“Who?” Cauthias asked.

“Ekehenas’ wizard. He showed us copies of these documents days go.”

Murias smiled.

“He’s not a half-elven fellow is he? This tall?” Murias motioned, “black hair, pale skin, fortyish?"

“That sounds like the man, why?” Fenisoth asked.

“While my colleagues and I were detained by house Orien, he enchanted one of house Orien’s captains to order his men loose crossbows on us. The wizard himself released an arcane stroke of lighting against me, nearly killing me, before we were able to escape. I met him again in the waiting room on the ground floor earlier today. He is now headed south somewhere, hog tied on the luggage rack of a carriage. I doubt very much he will be able to make these proceedings.”

Fenisoth stared in wonder and rage at the priest.

…

The world blurred for Mith. When it came back into focus, he found himself standing on a well traveled dirt road, at the gates of a stronghold that he could only assume was Otharaunt. A small village, probably no more than fifteen buildings, gathered at the gate. The air blew stiff, and carried the slight tang of salt in it.

Nazlash ir’Wynarn led the procession to the gate, where several guards in the Aundair military colors stood watch. Their surprise was immediately clear at the sudden appearance of such important nobility. They hastened to open the gates.

“Sir, I’ll inform Lady ir’Othar immediately of your presence,” one of the guards reported, before dashing ahead.

“Hold, soldier,” Murias demanded.

The soldier froze.

“Has the lady been acting odd lately?”

The soldier looked at the ground.

“Answer the question, Soldier,” Nazlash ordered.

“Yessir. She come back from a sabbatical, and she seems a different person, cruel and … I don’t know. She’s taken to wearing black, and beats the servants now without provocation.”

Nazlash led the procession forward toward the keep. The group came to the main foyer and paused.

“Alright. Split up. One member of family Orien with one member of Aundair nobility,” Nazlash ordered. “Fenisoth, you’re with me. Search the entire keep, meet back here in five minutes.”

“You three,” he ordered the companions, “Stay here.”

“I’ll keep an eye on these young ones then,” Cauthias said to no one in particular. “This is a lovely place, isn’t it?”

The trio stood in silence for a moment.

“Did you all just hear something?” Mith asked.

“No,” Brig said. “What did it sound like?”

“Like a portcullis.”

He stood very quiet for a moment.

“That sounded like a lion roar,” Murias said.

He wandered toward the door leading to the service corridor.

Cauthias stood at the front door, looking out on the lawns. A flower bed of particular beauty had captured his attention, and he wandered over to enjoy the blooms.

As Murias stepped into the corridor, he could hear the sounds more distinctly.

He heard Tef screaming on the other side of the door. He pulled on the handle of the door, but it seemed securely latched. Brig slid past him, starting to look at the door for a way to open it.

Suddenly, it sprang open, swinging toward them. A horrifying acrid smell wafted up, along with the scent of burned flesh. Orgok lay ruined at the top of the steps and Tef clawed frantically away from a huge, enraged chimera, tearing the stairwell apart to get to them.

In the blink of an eye, Brig had the slender wand in hand, and a bolt of pure electricity shot forth coursing a path directly through the monster. The stroke exploded fragments of stone when it terminated against the walls in the cellar.

“Whoohaa!” Brig cheered. “That’s some kind of magic!”

The beast roared defiantly, and the dwarf felt a moment of cold fear, seeing what it had done to Orgok.

“Hit it again!” Murias ordered.

Brig pointed at the monster again. It heaved its mass away from the attack and jerked itself out of the path of the lightning. The stroke tore through the beast’s wing, burning a huge hole through the leathery membrane, but it slid its bulk out of view, and Brig didn’t feel like pursuing.

Murias began his chant, focusing the energy of the Sovereign Host into Orgok. The blisters reduced, and some skin grew to cover areas previously devoid of flesh.

Orgok took in a harsh breath and struggled to stand up.

“Easy, easy,” Murias said, holding the warrior down.

Murias continued to chant, and again, the wounds lessened.

“That’s enough. I don’t have time for anything else,” Orgok shouted.

He twisted free and darted down the stairs. Brig and Mith started a second later, but he was on his way back up before they got on the first stair, a bloody chain held in his hand.

“Where does that passage go, Tef?” he demanded, indicating the passage taken by the fleeing couple.

“It leads to a cargo door on the north end of the property, for loading supplies from the docks.”

Orgok bolted to the rear of the house, knocking unsuspecting servants down in his wake. The others followed as best they could, but the all consuming passion fueling the hobgoblin drove him forward at almost unnatural speeds.

He sprang out the rear servants’ door, only to catch a mace directly in the stomach. He doubled over, and fell, but rolled back up to his feet. When he turned to face the attacker, he saw the young lady in black, smiling defiantly.

He coughed blood into his mouth, and spat it into her face.

“How dare you, you insignificant…,” she began.

Orgok had already turned was and again sprinting off toward the outer wall to the North.

“Coward! Face me if you’re so mighty a warrior!” she taunted.

Orgok didn’t care about the words of the lady. He didn’t care about his newly broken ribs, or his pain. He cared about the figure he saw walking down the steps toward the outer wall.

He threw himself recklessly toward the man, unmistakably Lord d’Orien. His legs pumped like tireless iron, his lungs burned, but the pain was cleansing. Victory was at hand. Justice was at hand.

When Orgok was within thirty feet, d’Orien turned and saw the threat. He bolted down the steps toward a small craft. Beyond, forty yards off shore, a swift bireme galley waited. The pair passed through the small open gate of the outer wall, only strides apart.

Ekhenas reached the dock, and drew his blade as he ran, realizing he’d never get into the vessel in time. The two oarsmen were climbing onto the dock and drawing cutlasses.

Orgok slowed to a fast walk. He spun the chain in wicked whipping arcs with both hands, slashing it against the face of one sailor, spilling him into the water, and wrapping it around the ankle of another. He heaved up, pulling the sailor’s foot out from under him, toppling him onto the dock. Orgok’s heavy boot planted into the sailor’s face.

“Just us now, d’Orien.” Orgok growled.

Ekhenas sliced his blade in the air, limbering his muscles.

“Hardly a fair fight. You, wounded by my pet, drooling blood, hardly a patch of skin on your mangy hide,” Ekhenas taunted, “and not even armed with a proper weapon.”

“This is the chain that held me prisoner,” Orgok explained. “Don’t you think it’s fitting….”

Orgok whipped the chain, expertly splitting open d’Orien’s nose.

“That it will be the instrument of your death?”

Lord d’Orien flinched at the pain, and touched his bleeding nose. His face contorted and he lunged swiftly. At the same moment, Orgok whipped the other end up, wrapping around the basket of the rapier. The pair looked down at where the blade sat nestled off center in Orgok’s stomach. Lord d’Orien twisted the blade slightly, smiling.

Orgok smiled back, heaved the human toward him, and cracked his thick skull against d’Orien’s. The lord staggered back, deprived of his blade. Orgok drew it from his stomach, and let the chain uncoil, watching the blade fall into the water with a splash. D’Orien drew his dagger and took a defensive stance.

Orgok continued smiling.

“I’m going to kill you now,” Orgok said, almost filled with glee.

Orgok whipped the chain, driving d’Orien back, following with an overhand strike that d’Orien sidestepped, splintering planks on the dock. D’Orien sliced with the short blade, jamming it into Orgok’s breastplate without effect. While in close, Orgok wrapped the chain around the lord’s throat, whipping him across the back with the other half. The stroke tore open the fine waste coat and tunic, revealing gashed skin underneath that spilled blood freely.

D’Orien wailed in pain and buckled to his knees.

“How does it feel? How do you like being whipped with cold steel, Lord Regent Ekhenas d’Orien? That was one stroke. I was once given ten.”

D’Orien reached for the chain around his neck, fighting to breathe.

“Oh, that? Well, I watched three of my kin hung by a yard arm. It lasted considerably longer than the pain you’ll endure, you miserable bastard.”

He released the chain from around the struggling lord’s throat that now knelt on hands and knees. Orgok swung his boot into the man’s stomach, knocking him on his side. D’Orien coughed blood and groaned.

“Would you call it a fair fight now, Lord d’Orien?”

“Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?” d’Orien spit venomously.

“I think I have a really good idea, yes. Get up, so we can finish this.”

Ekhenas climbed to his feet, dagger held loosely.

“Are you ready to proceed?” Orgok asked coldly.

“You can’t do this,” d’Orien yelled.

Orgok whipped the chain again, and d’Orien dodged it. Orgok’s offhand stroke slashed against d’Orien’s thigh, and the Regent yipped in pain. He wobbled, fighting to stay standing.

“What would you prefer I take, when I carve out my pound of flesh?” Orgok taunted.

He whipped the chain forward again, tearing the dagger from d’Orien’s hand, and mutilating the hand in the process. The dagger skittered near the edge of the dock. The Lord d’Orien lay quivering in agony cradling his wrecked digits.

“What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“I want wergild. I want you to pay for your crimes. Do you understand me?”

Orgok retrieved the misericord, the elaborate dagger teetering on the edge of the dock. The sun danced in the jewel on its pommel and played across the shining blade.

He turned, forced d’Orien onto his back and held the blade at his enemy’s heart.

“Now I take my pound of flesh.”