Free Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial by John Klobucher Page A

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…
     
    ~ ~ ~
    THIS VERSE LEFT
    INTENTIONALLY
    BLANK
    ~ ~ ~
     
    Clang!
    Ka-clang!!
    The noise came from a discarded blade
cascading off the pillowstones.
    Fyryx clapped his hands two times. “Fetch the
leaver.”
    His voice was cold.
    At the back of the hall, on the far wall next
to his vacant rest room, a huge but hidden doorflap was suddenly
split and violently thrown aside. Through the breach marched a
company of fourteen — two six-packs of leathery plainsmen with
cross-pikes, one tender-looking lad in shackles, and the fleshy
Finder himself, Bylo Hamyx. The hot, bothered pit bull led from
behind, his gnarliest finger pointing the way.
    “Head for the ring of truth, men. We’ll dump
this haul and collect our due!” Then he added, spitful and spiteful
as ever, “Long as the scales o’ justice aren’t rigged…”
    “Yo Bylo!”
    “Aye Finder!”
    His posse cheered, waving their weapons
overhead.
    “Bounty or mutiny, we don’t care…”
    And the motley crew grinned. They were armed
to the teeth. A dirty dozen spoiling to fight.
    They took it out on their prisoner.
    Despite the young man’s elvish size, the
plainsmen had him bound in coils of thick, coarse grapple rope fit
for a troll. Four of the swarthiest towed him hard, staggered or
dragged on his buckled knees. His slight body slumped, almost limp.
He was sinking.
    “Poor kid’s strung up like a puppet,” John
Cap muttered to himself. His blue eyes were full of sympathy.
“Geez… And a punching bag by the looks of that mug…”
    A sudden whoosh interrupted him.
    Crack!
    The sound of a bull whip split the air. Most
of the onlookers jumped in surprise as its thorn tip snapped at the
youth’s bowed head, no more than a lash from his half-closed
lids.
    The whipping boy didn’t even flinch.
    The oldest of Bylo’s bone collectors reached
for the short, curved pike at his side and pressed its point to the
leaver’s neck. “Giddy-up pony er you’ll be a gelding. We’s got us a
reward ta get.”
    But he could have cursed till his voice was
hoarse. The yearling was still hearing none of it. And by now the
reason was painfully clear.
    The handsome had been beaten out of him,
swollen and bloodied beyond recognition. An angelic face turned
apocalyptic. Lip split and red. Eyes black and blue.
    Sons of anarchy, brothers grim, the riders
had been rough on him already. There was worse to come.
    Bylo barked at his privateers. “Halt!” They’d
just made center court, which was staked out by the strangers’
sword. “Looks like tusk marks the spot,” he sneered. “Let’s give
‘em their little treasure back.”
    The fore men stopped at the odd white blade
protruding from the earthen floor. They puzzled a moment at the
thing then dropped their captive aside it.
    “Mmmph.”
    His knees, both skinned and bruised, hit the
dirt as the snake-like ropes around him recoiled. He was untied yet
still in chains.
    Bylo plowed his way ahead, netting a reeling
rod as he went from one of the twelve angry men in his crew. Soon
he reached