By Ulff Lehmann
I am no judge. Judges are Lliania’s priests, gifted by Lady Justice to discern truth and determine guilt. Judges do not catch lawbreakers; they sit in their courts and mete out justice. Where a judge is like a dressing applied to a cut, I am the surgeon.
Who am I?
The name’s Thyrn. Yes, I’m an elf, and yes, we still live in Kalduuhn, albeit away from the humans. Most have an inkling we’re still around, but human memory fades all too quickly.
What my job is? Let me tell you…
It always begins with a rumor, a whisper passing from one mouth to a nearby ear and from there to the mouth and ear of another person.
I never put much stock in open accusations, often the accuser merely wants to usurp the position of the accused. Sadly, finding the truth of any such rumor is difficult. It’s like tracking one specific animal in a stampede. The longer a rumor persists, the more distorted the morsel of truth becomes.
I had been hunting a particularly elusive boar. The cunning beast had torn up a caravan and rampaged through a farmstead near Bruidh M’dhain, and the foresters couldn’t handle him. At first, it seemed like just another hurting animal, but the longer I followed the animal, the more convinced I became that something else was driving the beast.
I was right, but that confirmation almost cost me my life. How the boar had gained his power mattered little, but by some peculiar accident, it had learned magecraft. Ferocity paired with animal instinct turned a minor threat into something I was ill-equipped to handle. So, I reached out to the Mages of Kalduuhn.
Yes, like elves, magic still exists.
I chose the one tavern in Bruidh M’dhain as a meeting place, and that’s where I heard the rumor being exchanged by two merchants. Would they have spoken this loudly had they known I was there? I don’t know. We don’t announce ourselves to people, and unless you know what to look out for anyone wearing a hood indoors is merely a person with a hood.
“I’m telling you it’s the truth. Not only does Lord Cynnor spend less and less time in Ma’tallon, he’s rearing his family on his country estate throughout the year.”
“That’s against the law,” the other said, the conversation made her nervous as she kept wiping her hands on her trousers. “It could lead to a Culling.”
“There hasn’t been a Culling in generations!” the first merchant exclaimed, lowering his voice the moment he realized how loud he was. “They might come for us all.”
Don’t know what a Culling is? Let me explain. Each society is like a garden, some are ruled by an iron-fisted gardener who stifles plants to grow the way they see fit; others grow wild. My masters conceived the idea and set it up for us before the dawn of man and the decline of Gathran. It’s the Rule of Consequence. Break the law and the law breaks you, stay within the confines, and everything is well. It took a few centuries, we elves are a haughty and violent lot, but in the end noble and commoner alike grew in the prescribed space—to use the garden analogy—and very few people step out of line nowadays. If the foundation isn’t corrupted, the building holds well. Or the garden… whatever.
With the rise of man, and my kind freeing the poor fuckers after a brief interlude of enslaving them, the powers that be in Kalduuhn decided to incorporate the Rule of Consequence with the humans as well. After all, they are Kalduuhneans the same as we are.
Only difference, the idiots tend to forget shit that’s been out of sight for too long. Let me give you an example: a child climbs up a tree when told not to; they slip, fall to the ground and break their arm. Any children present will remember the bone poking out of the smashed arm and will not attempt to climb that tree. Until a generation or two later the same shit happens all over again.
Humans are idiots.
Now imagine a law that says that to rule a people the rulers need to live among the people most of the time. In Ma’tallon, Kalduuhn’s capital, we designed a city that grew upwards, and by law, the nobility must remain at this massive tower’s foundation, always aware that if they fuck up, the common people will come crashing down on them. The nobles must remain in the shadow of the subjects for three quarters of a year. All the nobles.
But since humans are idiots, some asshole or other usually think themselves better than the law and wants to rule from a sunny glade instead. When that happens—and it has been happening every other generation or so—we elves sweep in and destroy the weeds.
That’s the Culling.
Sad thing is, it never lasts. Humans are idiots, so we went in every few decades and butchered the high nobility as a lesson for those that would follow.
That’s the Culling.
And the merchants were right to be worried.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s always fun to hunt fat nobles with spears or cut their children apart in front of wailing mothers who suddenly remember what the law says, but sometimes things did go out of control, and innocents on the lower levels of Ma’tallon died as well.
Do I feel pity? The law is the law, and nobody stands above it, so no.
Lord Cynnor, I had never heard the name. Then again, I rarely ventured to Ma’tallon. This was the exception. The merchants knew little more and spoke even less about it. Maybe some humans were learning. As it stood, I had to wait on the mage. Another day passed until she arrived. I summarized my encounter with the boar, pointed her in the direction the beast was heading and took my leave. Sure, she asked me to aid her, but the law clearly prescribes our duties. Magical shit for mages, law shit for folks like me.
I left for Ma’tallon that same day. Along the way, I kept to myself, off the beaten paths until reaching larger settlements. Hooded figures are more common there than in a three-house village. Even then I talked little. Sure, we live with the humans, but while their dialects change quickly, ours remain longer and adapting is tedious, especially since dialects differ from region to region even in one country. The rumors I heard were many. Most had shit to do with Lord Cynnor, but a few other traders and merchants did exchange gossip and their worries of another Culling.
I wish I could have told them Cullings were a thing of the past; that we were going for precision nowadays, but we move in secret. Far less fun, but also fewer casualties of innocent bystanders.
When I reached Ma’tallon, its sight took my breath away as it always did. The stone foundation with its manors and temples, mansions and granaries and warehouses were as busy as ever. Since I’d last been here, the human engineers had added mirrors to reflect sunlight into the perpetual gloom of that foundation. Above, the higher levels seemed more robust. Some nobles had obviously enacted renovations to make life above, and consequently for them, better. A few centuries prior the foundation had still been a partial sewer with the commoners disposing of their filth down chutes that were ill-maintained and dripping shit all over the place. The nobles then had locked themselves in their manors, only sending out servants to gather supplies. I’m told that Culling was a pretty shitty affair. Hah!
Things had changed. For the better, from the looks of it, but humans are morons. Sure, anyone could see the improvements. The refuse pipes were properly dressed in minimal leakage, they had actually attached railings to the upper levels, so no kid or drunkard could tumble to their death. Things looked definitely better. If the rumor about this Lord Cynnor were true, however, things were not as bright as they seemed.
Another beer?
That’s the stuff.
Now, where was I? Right, Lord Cynnor and his family and things not being as good as they appeared.
As I said before, we aren’t Lawspeakers. That doesn’t mean we do not serve Lliania, far from it! While we aren’t part of Lady Justice’s clergy, all of us were—before we changed professions. Can’t have any stupid fucker with a sword and a chip on their shoulder mete out Justice, can we? Aye, I was an Upholder before, presided over a court and all that. But we never got the real bastards, you know. The really corrupt always have some pawn they can sacrifice, even with the Cullings. Besides, striking terror into the hearts of the corrupt is the most fun one can have outside the bedroom.
Yes, Lliania’s blessing remains with us. We still can tell if someone’s speaking the truth. But truth and fact are two different animals. Someone saying they can breathe water is their truth. They know it’s true, so any Lawspeaker needs to rely on witnesses to corroborate the story. Or they just shove the water-breather under and wait for the facts. Bastard still alive after a torch has burned down, their truth is actually fact. And justice is all about facts.
What? Sure, I could have gone to a Library, but leafing through thousands of scrolls to find what you’re looking for is a pain in the ass. Too time-consuming, and not much fun.
So, I began my investigation. I found out where Cynnor lived, watched the comings and goings of his manor, learned the faces and names of all those in his employ. Took a week.
No, a Library is not easier. Ever been to the lowest vaults in one? Yes, there is more than one vault in any Library; Grand Libraries are even bigger since they store everything. Yes, that includes stupid stuff as well, so fucking around one vault only to learn you need another and then another. We’re long-lived, not bloody immortal!
Anyway, after a week I knew the faces of all that came and went, where they lived and so on, and it was time for me to start in earnest.
Here, have some more ale.
So, on the eighth day after my arrival in Ma’tallon, I followed a lad named Talfyn. He was just a scullion, but the folks whom nobody pays attention to are by and large the ones who hear the most. He still lived with his parents, shared his meager income with them to help with their expenses. His parents ran a smithy, but couldn’t afford more help, so Talfyn worked for Cynnor during the afternoon and evening and helped his parents out in the smithy during the day. Poor kid never got enough sleep.
I posed as a traveler who needed his blade fixed. Something not far from the truth, the old poker had seen better days a century ago, and I’d never found the time to get some to the notches repaired. A bulging purse convinced Talfyn’s father—don’t ask me his name—to let his other work rest and focus on my order. The lad exhausted himself just to shovel coals into the furnace, and it took the father until noon to figure out the blade he’d been heating was elven which prompted him to make the fire even hotter. Poor Talfyn was working the bellows like an imbecile.
I felt bad for the entire family. Mother and father were discussing how to proceed; their son was slaving over the bellows. It required better coal they said, and of course, they sent the boy. Being a considerate customer, I offered my aid, which the lad gladly accepted. So off to the market we went. I learned there were three markets that might have what we needed, and we walked and climbed from one to the next. Talfyn was already past exhaustion when we reached the market by the Tallon. So instead of heading straight for the coal monger, I suggested we get some food first.
Initially, the lad was reluctant. After all, this was his family’s livelihood, and he was loath to be tardy. I told him he was utterly useless to his parents if collapsing from fatigue. I bought us a few fried sausages, half a loaf of bread, and some midday ale and we settled down near the docks.
“You’re an elf, aren’t you?” Talfyn said between bites.
The lad was perceptive. “Aye.” There was no point in lying.
“Some of my friends said you’d left after the war.”
“Not all did, only the morons in Gathran.”
“They built the roads, didn’t they?”
Talfyn knew a lot, from where I couldn’t guess. “Aye.”
“Can’t have been that stupid.”
I chuckled. “Indeed.”
“So why are you here? It ain’t because of your sword.”
Perceptive indeed. “Tell me about Lord Cynnor,” I answered. There was no point beating around the bush, such a bright kid would have seen through the deception quickly.
“Ah,” Talfyn mumbled whilst chewing. He took a swig from the ale gourd and said, “You want the miser.”
“I need to confirm a rumor.”
“You’re one of them!” the boy exclaimed, curiosity battling fear for dominance of his expression.
“One of whom?”
“The butchers.”
That’s what folklore had made of us? Mere butchers? Then again, he was just a child, and children are bound to repeat what they heard others speak. “What do you mean?”
“You go around and kill people for fun.”
“Have I murdered anyone on our way here?”
Talfyn shook his head.
“Do you know the law, lad? I mean the one that everyone is bound to.”
Again, he shook his head. So, I explained. After I was done, he asked, “Even the King?”
“Even the King,” I said. “No one is above the law.”
“So, you’re like a shepherd?”
“In a way. Now tell me about Cynnor.”
“Oh, the Lord is barely around, so they say. I don’t go about the house much, but most times the cooks just prepare food for the servants or the odd guest staying at the manor.”
“Are you sure?”
“Heard the castellan complain about it to the head cook more than once.”
“That’s Brisen. She’s the castellan, correct? And Rhun, the head cook.”
“Aye.”
“How often has Lord Cynnor been around? I mean how many times since you started working there?”
Talfyn scrounged up his face, the bread in his hand forgotten. Finally, he said, “Twice, I think. Around the time of the King’s tournament.”
“How long does the tournament last?” I asked, not that it mattered.
“A fortnight.”
“And he left immediately afterwards?”
“Aye. I think at least, I mean I never saw him or his family, but we always had so much more to do during those days.”
“I see.” There wasn’t much more to ask. Now I had to confirm Talfyn’s story.
We finished eating, fetched the coal and returned to the smithy. I wanted to apologize for our tardiness, but Talfyn must have thought ahead for he explained we had to wait for a barge to be unloaded.
It helps to know one’s way around a place.
Brisen and Rhun were tougher to follow. They lived in Cynnor Manor and had others running errands for them. In the end, however, it was simple.
I found out where their families lived and paid them a visit. First Brisen’s, then Rhun’s. The castellan’s sister and family lived on one of the lower levels, just two stairs up from the noble’s. Ensuring anyone’s cooperation is easy, once you know what’s closest to a person’s heart. It took me a while to figure out where Brisen’s priorities lay, other than herself.
Part of the job is waiting, but I think I told you that already. Waiting and watching, and occasionally asking a question or ten.
A human would’ve stormed the sister’s place and started destroying shit, and while that can be fun, it usually doesn’t yield the desired result. You want their cooperation. So I waited and watched. First Lord Cynnor’s manor, then the sister’s dwelling. I followed deliveries, and runners carrying messages. Two weeks all in all. I found out that both Brisen and Rhun sent a stipend to their families, but Rhun’s contribution wasn’t that much. He did, however, send a hefty amount to a woman I could only assume was his mistress. So, I decided to watch first the sister’s place then scout out the mistress’s.
The sister had two children; the girl was named after her aunt, and her aunt doted on the child.
No, the child wasn’t harmed. Much, but I get to that.
One evening I decided to pay the sister’s family a visit. They offered little resistance, and in quick succession, I had first the children and then the husband tied up. The mother I’d beaten unconscious. Left a nasty bruise on her face, but anything else might not have been as convincing. She woke to the sight of her family bound by hands and feet, rags in their mouths, hanging from the rafters, with me standing next to little Brisen, knife in hand. She whimpered in fear. Who wouldn’t have, right?
“Any more noise and I cut the lass’s head off,” I said as calmly as I’m talking to you now. She nodded and remained silent.
“I need you to fetch your sister and nobody else.” Again she nodded, but I could see the question in her eyes, so I fished out my badge of office.
What? You’ve never seen one. Oh here, have a look. I don’t go flashing the thing about that much. Makes people nervous. Yes, that’s elven craft. Never been much of an artificer myself unless you count impaling infants an art form. See the detail on the wings? It looks like the eagle is actually holding the scales aloft, don’t you think? Yes, the scales represent Lady Justice; we are her servants after all. Watch out, the claws can be nasty. Sometimes, I swear, one of the claws actually let’s go of the feather they both are holding. Legend has it that if one of her servants succumbs to corruption, the feather is dropped, and the amulet claws its way to your heart. I guess the eagle releasing its grip with one claw is Lliania warning us that we stray from the path of justice.
Yes, it’s gold and silver. No, you can’t hold it.
Now, where was I? Right.
Brisen’s sister, Rhonwynn, saw the badge, realized what it meant and sped off to fetch her sister. I let the family down, bound them properly, and apologized for the display. They were too afraid to understand, not that it mattered.
I prepared some tea, offered some to each of them, and little Brisen actually accepted. Her father and brother stared at her as if she was a dragon, but there was something about the girl that seemed to grasp the situation’s importance.
“You’re not here for my aunt either, are you?” she asked, showing way more insight than I had expected. I wondered if Lliania was choosing children for her priesthood before they came of age. Things had changed and with humans breeding like rabbits, getting decent Lawspeakers wasn’t easy, I guess.
“No, little one, but…”
The lass interrupted me, “You need to make sure you’re following the right path.”
“Aye.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
This time, I thought I actually detected some of Lliania’s divinity in the child. There was this air of fierce determination around her, in her voice, her eyes. Yes, the lass was indeed hand chosen by Lady Justice. “No, child, I won’t.”
“I shall aid you in your endeavor,” she said regally.
I swear I was utterly taken aback, and I wondered if any of the innocents we had killed over the years in our pursuit of justice had been selected by Lliania as well. Since our badges hadn’t carved out our hearts, I think not, but who knows.
Brisen the older and Rhonwynn returned momentarily, the girl inclined her head directing my attention to the gag that was dangling around her neck. I quickly replaced it in her mouth. She gave me a nod and a wink and assumed the most terrified expression I had ever seen on a child, and that includes some who were run down like wild dogs.
Mother and aunt entered, and I turned theatrically, my cloak swirling around me. I found it helps if the entrance is dramatic.
More ale? Here you go.
“Cooperate, and no harm will come to anyone,” I said.
Cynnor’s castellan nodded, her eyes darting about the room and focusing on her namesake. “What do you want?”
“Right to the point, I like that,” I said, caressing my dagger’s pommel. “As the one responsible for the noble household of Lord Cynnor you are familiar with the law, correct?”
“Aye,” she replied, shoulders slumping as she relaxed. “This is about Cynnor and his family not living in Ma’tallon for the prescribed time?”
“Indeed it is.”
“We are but his servants, he pays us, we obey.”
“The fault lies with him, not with you. But since you know the law, you’re already aware of that, so please spare me irrelevancies.”
“As you wish.”
“How often and how long is Lord Cynnor usually in town?” I needed to confirm what Talfyn had told me. If Brisen corroborated the lad’s tale, it wasn’t mere gossip.
“He comes for the tournaments and a few other official events, he never stays long.”
She was telling the truth. “Splendid. Thank you for your cooperation. I ask you to not reveal anything spoken here.” I looked around regarding them. “That means all of you.” Removing their gags, I asked, “Do you swear on Lliania’s Scales you won’t talk of this?”
They all said the words, as good as any written contract.
“Good.” I dug into my purse, fished out a few Gold Suns and handed one to every person in the room. Another few I placed on the table. “I apologize for the inconvenience. These coins are for your trouble. Anyone take those of the children, I will know and come back to teach you a lesson in manners.”
They were honest people, but the sight of gold can drive even the most honest mad.
Rhun was a different matter. He only paid token attention to his family, but as it turned out, he was fucking his mistress every chance he got.
I always wonder about the fleetingness of human affection. Is it because your lives are so short that you think you need to cram in as many cunts or cocks as you can when the object of your affections goes bald, or fat, or gives birth to your children? What about the emotions, the love? Is it the same as liking one dish until you see a new specialty?
Anyway, Rhun’s mistress, Sorai, a Dragonlander as it turned out, lived near the docks. A beauty if ever there was one, tall, dark, with fierce, intelligent eyes, she stood out in every crowd. From the way she handled the blade when I witnessed a few toughs trying to threaten her purse from her, I realized she would not be easy to intimidate.
I love a challenge.
Sorai made her living designing, building and repairing barges.
I know. Takes a lot of brain and education to do that, and while the Tallon isn’t small, there are few shipwrights in these parts. Heard rumors that most river-drovers used to buy their vessels down south, on the coast, from the people building the ships that travel the coasts. With Sorai in Ma’tallon, I reckon they now buy their ships locally.
Anyway, I never could find out what she saw in Rhun. The guy was too squirrelly even for a human. With her, I had to be careful.
I posed as a potential customer, entering her workshop in broad daylight and pretended to make a big order. Soon, her assistant had directed me to her office, a stuffy affair with drawing boards and sketches all over the place. She looked up from her latest design when her assistant cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“This man wants to buy several vessels,” the young man said and dashed out, closing the door behind.
“Really now?” Sorai asked, sizing me up. Her ancestors must have settled the land behind the Veil of Fire centuries ago, for now, up close, I noticed that her skin was darker than any Dragonlanders’ I had ever seen before.
The sun, you see, and the fire, I guess. Anyone courageous enough to live in the lands of the dragons changes, you see. They’re a sight to behold, majestic like their fireling sponsors. What are firelings you ask? Never mind, think dragons, that’s all you need to know.
“You’re no human,” Sorai said, her white teeth flashing in a smirk.
I was taken aback. Were all Dragonlanders so perceptive? As I lowered my hood, I asked her exactly that question.
She shook her head in the way Dragonlanders do, a more ponderous motion that took along the shoulders, something they must have adopted from the dragons. I must admit I was drawn to her.
It’s odd, I had never been attracted to a human, male or female, but Sorai was enticing.
“Many elves crossed the sea and the Veil to live with us. They,” she said, inclining her head with the same sinuous motion as the shake to indicate the people outside, “they don’t know elves any more, we do. It’s easy to spot, for the trained eye. What can I do for you?”
There was no deference in her voice, just the matter-of-factness of one equal to another. I liked her even more then. “Your lover.”
Again, her teeth flashed, along with her eyes. “You want me to share?”
Yes, I was falling head over heels for her, but that is beside the point.
“No,” I said, hearing my voice quaver. “I need to speak with him.”
“Which one?” Sorai said, smirking.
For a moment I was speechless. I must admit I hadn’t paid much attention to the comings and goings other than when Rhun was around. Then I saw her smile.
I realized then she was flirting with me. And believe me, I would have loved to reciprocate, but I had a job to do. “May we shelve this part of the dance until later?”
She shook her head. “Dance?” I have no idea what my face looked like, but it made her laugh. “As you wish, we shall postpone the dance until later.”
“Thanks. I need to speak with Rhun.”
“Speak or interrogate?” she asked, once more her eyes gleaming with cunning.
“Either, both? Depends on how cooperative he is.”
“Let me send for him.” Sorai stood, her linen pants and tunic rippling down her body.
Yes, I was enamored.
She called her assistant and sent him on his merry way. Then we waited.
After a while, she said, “Do you need something to make him compliant?”
I didn’t know who this woman was, what she was, other than drop dead gorgeous, but I realized she was so much more than a shipwright.
No, I won’t elaborate!
“I think I try to reason with him first.”
“If you need help, ask.” Again she flashed her irresistible smile.
I didn’t. Rhun was far too intimidated to lie. He confirmed Talfyn’s and Brisen’s stories. Turning corroborated rumor into fact. I could have asked more of Cynnor’s staff, but chances would’ve grown that somehow the lord would catch wind of my investigation and flee.
Sorai assured me she would keep Rhun away from work. I didn’t ask how.
Finding Lord Cynnor’s country estate was easier, and a lot faster. I spoke to a few drovers who made regular deliveries to outlying places, and Cynnor Manor was one of them. It was a half day ride out of Ma’tallon, and I arrived there at dusk.
Like all estates anywhere, Cynnor Manor had a wall and guards. Not that either posed any problem. Like many rich folks are wont to do, they save money where they shouldn’t; the guards were overworked, too few, and half asleep on the job.
And the wall was a minor obstacle.
Hidden in a bush growing near a window, I watched as Cynnor and his family dined. His wife looked spoiled, gold and silk dangling off of her as if she had fallen into a clothing store and rolled through to the jewelers. Last time I had seen such decadence I had driven a lance right through its heart, her heart.
The children were of age, and while they had the same vacant, entitled look like their father, there was something undoubtedly malicious about them. Spoiled children behave a certain way, no matter their origin. I’ve seen it with elves as well. And Sorai tells me that beyond the Veil of Fire, things aren’t really that different. Cynnor’s spawn threw tantrums at the slightest imagined offense, insulting the staff, tossing food on the floor, with their parents watching in bemused silence.
And the Lord Cynnor himself? He was the biggest cunt of them all. Sitting there on his gilded chair, probably imagining himself king instead of the King. I wondered how House Kassor hadn’t killed them off long before my involvement. Maybe they thought him too buffoonish? He was fat, had his gray hair combed over the ample bald spots on his head, and looked like an angry tomato had ravaged a cucumber.
You laugh, but it’s true.
I waited until they retired. Then I entered the house.
The servants were about. But the one who noticed me just looked my way and shrugged. No loyalty there, not that I blamed the woman. Maybe the tomato face had raped her too. Just the thought of killing the bastard gave me a sense of accomplishment.
First the children.
They were in their rooms, opulent affairs that suffocated in luxury. I usually keep children unconscious when doing what I do, but after having seen their disgusting behavior, I decided to not grant them that kindness. They deserved none.
Gagged and bound, I dragged them to their parents’ bedrooms; yes, tomato face didn’t even share a bed with his wife. I bound and gagged her, and then carried the threesome to Cynnor’s door.
The bastard was already snoring.
Not for long, I thought and entered silently. A few quick steps and I was by his side. First came the gag, then the struggle as the cunt woke. A few light blows to the face sufficed to subdue him to the whimpering cucumber he was. Then I tied him to the bed.
By now he had regained his wits and stared at his family. His daughter, his son, even his wife as I dragged them in one by one. He was whimpering like a neutered dog, probably would have promised me gold, land, anything, had he been able to talk. His kind thinks money is everything and everyone is as corrupt as they are. I ignored him.
Next, I closed the door and opened my pack.
Here, have a look at the craftsmanship. Yes, that’s steeloak, and see these parts of the rods? They fit into one another, a few turns and they are as one. Like this. You can fit a small arsenal into the satchel if you know how. Luckily our artificers do. See how this bit screws itself into the other end as I turn? And here we have it, almost looks like a spear, doesn’t it?
Aye, I have parts for half a dozen spears in here. They don’t need to be that thick. Steeloak, remember? Only dwarf-forged steel is stronger, but who has the time for that? Oh, right, elves do; well, I don’t; there’s nothing a good steeloaken point can’t kill.
Anyway.
Cynnor watched and whimpered as I assembled my spears. All six of them. By the time I had finished with the fourth one, the wife and children had come to again. They struggled, and whimpered, probably prayed to, but the gods really don’t give a fuck most of the time. They set up rules, and you don’t have to obey them. The consequence of such actions comes when you reach the Bailey Majestic and are weighed by Her Scales. If you’re a cunt, you will be a chamber pot or something.
What? No, I have no idea what the alternatives are. Spittoons, buckets for vomit, cloth to wipe your ass with after a shit, I have no idea. So, as I assembled the sixth spear, I began to speak. It’s what I do to upset the vile fuckers even further. No, of course not during a proper Culling, holding a soliloquy during a hunt on horseback is fucking impossible.
“There are laws, you know,” I said. “They were put in place so that there would be no strife, no chaos. We thought a Culling ever so often would teach you folks the power of consequence. Mistreat a dog long enough and it lashes out and attacks.”
I picked up the daughter, so she stood. Then, ever so gently, I pushed the first spear into her left hip and up to the right until the tip broke through the skin of her shoulder. As they screamed into their gags, I continued talking.
“Rebellions, we discovered, are a consequence of mistreatment. Those who rule ignore their duties. Yes, the rich have duties to those less fortunate, for their wealth, their nobility is forged on the backs of the poor.”
I took the second spear and did the same to the daughter’s right side, but I had miscalculated and needed to wriggle the spear around to get past the first one. By the time that was done, however, the daughter was already dead. Shame really, I had wanted her father to watch her flop like a fish a little longer. With the spears acting like a frame, I could place her easily against the wall, a little blood splattered against the tapestry, a hideous portrait of tomato face himself. It actually improved the artwork.
“Shit, I apologize for the inconvenience. It’s been a while. As I was saying, the rich have a responsibility. Which is why the nobility and priests live at the bottom of Ma’tallon, you know. So that they always feel the weight of responsibility. If they fuck up, their world will literally come crashing down on them.”
I took the third spear and scratched the son’s left side to mark the place I would have to pierce for the spears not to block one another. Then I stepped to the young man’s right and began this bit of the operation. Father and mother were groaning, weeping, and mumbling through their rags. The son, not so much. At least not after the initial piercing of his guts and lung.
“The law that nobility and merchants need to spend the majority of the time in Ma’tallon is there to remind you of your responsibility. Nobody expects you to live in the gloom all the time, of course, but if you don’t live there any considerable time at all, you tend to forget those you’re holding down are actually stronger than you and can crush you whenever they want. But why go through such trouble, my ancestors thought?”
I took the fourth spear and pushed it through the left side. This time without meeting resistance. “Hah! See what a little preparation can do.” As the tip pierced the son’s right shoulder, the boy twitched again. Spirited, I have to say.
By now the mother was hysterical, flopping on the floor like a fish, weeping, shuddering. A joy to behold. I paused a moment to savor the look. Then I leaned the son, still twitching on his set of spears, against the wall next to his sister.
What? You thought the shit you heard about us were Fiery Tales to scare children into eating their porridge? Sorry to disappoint, but we are not kind, we are efficient, and bloodshed is a lovely form of entertainment. We’ve enjoyed it for millennia. It’s rare now, and the Cullings are the only somewhat continuous showing of it nowadays. Sure, there’s also the games where we let criminals slash it out. Of course, crime still happens, elves are morons too, you know.
Anyway.
It was the wife’s turn now. “That you people never learn,” I said, piercing her right hip and pushing through layers of fat and gut. “I mean there have been, what? Five Cullings before, and your father might have experienced one first hand. The villeins and freeborn think it great sport too, you know. To see their tormentors ridden down, impaled, gutted like boars. Gives them a certain satisfaction, and rightfully so.”
The wife whimpered, shuddered and straightened as much as she could when the sixth spear entered her left hip. “You have all the chances in the world to learn, you have history as an example. And yet you ignore it all to fuck over the ones that will kill you once they realize they are stronger. But who needs that chaos, right?”
Now the wife was flopping on both pokers. Given her girth, I had some trouble getting her to the wall. The slippery floor didn’t make it easier. Thankfully my spears had straight points so that the guts couldn’t slip to the floor and make things even messier. Our teachers told us about that shit. Shit quite literally. I mean, everyone soils themselves, which is stinky but sticks to undergarments, mostly. A ruptured gut? Not so much. Finally, I got her to the wall.
“Rebellions are never fun, you know. What starts as collective rage quickly turns into ambitious morons fucking over the others just to usurp the power from those the mob killed,” I told Cynnor. “So we get the same shit, only with different assholes. Believe me, we tried. Won’t you look at that, a nice family portrait.”
By now Cynnor was marinating in his piss and shit and tears, and the room had grown quite rank. I was tired of this man. There had been nobles and rich folk who had actually fought in wars, people who had stood their ground and fought back during the Cullings. They’re the reason why the system was changed. They’re why we began killing only the bad apples, if you will.
Cynnor was as pathetic as they come, I wouldn’t even want to shit or piss in him, were he to become a chamber pot in the gods’ halls.
I pulled three items from my satchel. A scroll with the Unbreakable Laws of Kalduuhn, the text isn’t that long. Here, have a look. See, any moron can understand and follow them, right? The second was a hammer, and the third a nail, two feet long.
I walked over to Cynnor, sat him against the wall, laid the top of the scroll on his sweaty head – the sweat keeps the parchment from slipping—and then hammered scroll to head and head to wall.
Don’t look so pale, friend. You aren’t noble. But if you and I don’t show up at your place by midnight, Talfyn and Brisen the Younger will start with the fingernails.
No, we don’t want to harm you, but we need to be sure you understand. We know you work for Lord Evres, and there have been some very unpleasant rumors coming our way.
Yes, I am who I am, you saw the badge.
I am a Knight of Kalduuhn, and this is my sworn duty.