Stalking Justice
Clenching my fists, my nails bit into my palms, nearly drawing blood. For the fifth time in as many minutes I caught myself tapping an impatient rhythm against the stone floor. My attempts to escape Blackspire, this cesspit of a city, had landed me in this courtroom. Dravik, my prosecutor, all but marked me for execution. I had yet to best him on the field of conflict or in front of a judge. The manacles and leg-irons I wore testified of that.
“Kalden, apprentice mage of Rythan, you are hereby accused of twenty-five counts of murder and plotting the overthrow of House Xathis. How do you plead?” Judge Frachion asked.
The walls of the courthouse shrank, the dull oaken walls crept closer, hemming me in. Jakkar, my sole witness, stood silent.
“Not guilty,” I said. The judge nodded, ready to proceed. I heard the rumbling, rolling boulder of justice thundering towards me.
Dravik stood. Like me, his strong jaw and chiseled face marked him a descendant of the Argothi clansmen. Years of magic study in the Arcanum, the school of magic where I had spent most of my waking life, softened my muscles, while he pursued a career in violence and assassination. He was not large, but every step, every movement displayed a life of honing his physical form. He met my stare and I turned away first, another victory for him.
His voice filled every crevice, explaining how he discovered me in the act of killing the Xathis lord, his guards dead. He called his slaves and they told the judge of catching me in the midst of murder. I rolled my eyes. Swords are for people with brains of dust motes. Spells are my weapons and they've served me well. That is, until Dravik's rage locked on to me. He turned my ability into debility.
Dravik slid into his chair. I rose, legs shaking. I fought with incantations, not legal arguments. Although I sought justice, I didn't expect it.
“Your honor,” I said. “Dravik has...regaled you with a grandiose fantasy. But that's all. He's complicit in this case and its creator.” I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my voice. “I'll prove that Dravik orchestrated the death of those twenty-five guards and how that fits into his greater scheme.”
I glanced at Dravik. His face lost some of its smirk and a sprig of hope grew within my chest. I prayed for a plan to form, that an avenue to survive the next twenty-four hours would emerge.
I explained to the judge that events began six days ago when Dravik and his allies found me in an abandoned warehouse and beat me to a handspan from death. It was a reminder of his threat – prove worthy of my Argothi heritage or die by his hand. Weakness, he claimed, was a blight within the clan. My distaste for murder was a disease and he would cut it free.
Afterwards, I said to the judge, I staggered from the warehouse, to an out of the way clinic. The nurse gave me a foul look as I deposited my last coins onto her palm. Next time I'd tip better. At least my ribs were repaired and my shoulder in its socket.