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

Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial
    Tales of tongues unknown
    Translated by John Klobucher
    (he wrote it too, but don’t tell anyone and spoil the
fun)
     
    Copyright 2015 John Klobucher
    Smashwords Edition
     
    Visit John Klobucher’s author
page at Smashwords.com
     
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    Cover art by John Klobucher
     
     
     
    Table of Contents
    Episode 8 ~ The Trial
    About the Author
     
     
     
    Episode 8 ~ The Trial
    Ho-man knew his duty.
    “Hear ye, hear ye! Your attention please… The
court of the Keep is now in session. People — prepare for judgment
day!”
    The servants scurried to whisk away any sign,
every crumb from their feeding frenzy. Juxtyn Tymbly stopped to sop
up the last drops of sweet hospitality.
    The battle tent was suddenly spartan.
    Fyryx the Redder Than Ever glared impatiently
until they were done. Then he donned a tall leather judge’s hat and
spat out his instructions.
    “Treasured guardsmen, honored eldest — I
trust you’ve left room for dessert! Just be prepared for something
sour, not sugar-coated. Bitter truth…” He sneered at the near wall
lined with folk. “For there’s hard evidence, more than a trace of
toxin in our blood again, an old familiar taste of poison spoiling
our body politic, friends. Worse than arsenic spiked with mace or
nightshade laced with angel’s bane. A venom I dreamed was finally
gone…” His fiery eyes lit briefly on Minyon. “And not the spark of
a new sedition, fueling a fevered anarchy…”
    He paused, though only long enough to gnash
his teeth and look away. Then he shook as if trying to stir from a
nightmare or force a rude awakening.
    “But we’ll nip it in the bud, I promise — rip
out this weed by its very roots. The antidote is in our court… a
medicine called punishment.”
    The justice’s icy stare caught the
stranger.
    “No better balm than a Guard at arms, or
salve as sure as the mud of our pit. It can cure outbreaks of crime
in no time, and we’ll prove it once again.”
    All of a sudden a long furry vine rained down
from the smoke clouds overhead, unfurled from the billowing ceiling
dome. At the end, a heavy slab of headstone hung from a twisted
hangman’s noose.
    “Let’s get down to business,” growled Fyryx.
“I’ve had my fill of this whole song and dance.”
    He pulled a blade from behind his hassock.
“I’m cutting the chord at last!”
    And he swung.
    The dead weight was decapitated and fell to
the ground with a loud, round thud. The rope tied up to the roof
flew off and the tent’s great dome blew open wide.
    Then all it took was a gust of wind to clear
the hall of its lyrical air, to kill its soundtrack, the chamber’s
music. Everything left was cut and dried — plain as day, black and
white, simple as that.
    The brother Treasuror squinted at the high
noon sun now pouring in. “Welcome to my new arena, where brutal
truth is the only game. Look around. You won’t find a shadow of
doubt here. Not one shade of gray. No rhyme, just reason.”
    He pointed his ironwood sword to the heavens.
“Mark this as the day the muses died.”
    Ho-man shrugged but followed orders,
faithfully noting the dark decree. Then he added “That’ll be the
day” at the bottom of his diary.
    When he ran out of leaf he turned over a new
one. And…
    “Oh boy!”
    He looked in disbelief. Something within the
log book shook him. “It’s a sign or prophecy.”
    Then he remembered his tall teen friend.
“Psst, hey buddy…”
    The big bopper listened.
    “Ever reversed a lyric curse?