So
Wouldn’t it be great
if you were like
Starting to love this story
And wanted to buy my book?
It would.
Ladrian was out of breath by the time they got Athra Jaims tied over the horse. It wasn’t a long walk to the office, just four street lengths, but the sight of them attracted a crowd quickly. Concerned citizens gawked from their porches. A couple of men gave Ladrian approving nods or calls of encouragement. Children either ran to see the spectacle, or worse … ran to tell others.
“We need to move faster,” said Ladrian anxiously.
“Why’s that?” asked Maritimus. “This is your moment, constable. After today you’ll never have to buy your own drinks in this town again.” She laughed. “You’re the man who took down Athradian Jaims.”
Ladrian ignored the comment, fully aware, as was Maritimus, that it had been Trof who had actually stopped the outlaw. If not for the cro, well, Ladrian’s body would still be on the floor. But it wasn’t the fame or recognition that was poking at Ladrian’s thoughts. It was what came next – what always came after an arrest of this sort, and how it would hinder Ladrian’s own efforts to get out of town. “Trof,” she said, trying to keep the confidence in her voice, “get that horse moving faster.”
They quickened their step and were nearly back to the constabulary when the inevitable met them. The mob formed so haphazardly that it was almost a thing of beauty – like leaves that made a pattern on the surface of a stream. There were maybe a dozen of them at first. Then two dozen, at the least. Many of them still bore the makeshift weapons they’d been lugging around all morning. They gathered in tightly and Trof brought the horse to a stop, even as several men moved up to clap the constable on the shoulders. Their voices were a cacophony of adulation.
“Took down Athradian Jaims!”
“Can’t believe it.”
“We should string him up right now, constable.”
“Is that my horse?”
“String up the outlaw!”
“String him up!!”
Ladrian took the reins from Trof and tried pushing through the crowd, but when several men forced their way to the horse and began trying to remove the outlaw from where he slumped, it was all she could do to raise her flintlock in the air, pull the trigger, and silence the crowd with a deafening “CRACK” of powder.
She waited, watching as the townsfolk covered their ears from the echoing discharge. Her own ears rang painfully as well, and her hand now throbbed where Maritimus’s knife had stabbed into it. She kept one hand on the reins and the other on the flintlock still pointed at the sky. “No one’s getting strung up today,” she announced commandingly. “Do you remember the last time we had a hanging in this town? Are you all just itching to go through that again?”
Blank faces stared back at Ladrian. Some looked away or down at their feet.
“Athradian Jaims is a killer!” This voice belonged to one of the milkmaids who worked part time at the bakery. “He murdered those caravan musicians what set out on the road to Exus.”
The crowd murmured as Ladrian made another attempt to push through. “That caravan was set upon by a pack of something other than road agents,” Ladrian assured. ‘Their bodies were mostly eaten. I saw it for myself.” A few more steps and the sheer size of the horse would let them push through and round the corner to the constabulary.
“He killed Garth!” came the angry voice of Brock Shaw.
“That’s not true,” said Ladrian quickly, hoping she was in fact right about her deputy’s current state of being. In the panic of the cathedral she hadn’t actually found a pulse in the young man’s neck, but his skin felt warm enough to lie about it now. “The deputy fought valiantly and is currently helping set the cathedral right following this morning’s dustup.” She found herself genuinely hoping that Garth was still alive. Ladrian stopped then turned to look at the accuser. “Brock Shaw, if you saw Garth fall, how is it that you’re here now and not at the chapel with the rest of them?”
Brock Shaw’s face went red as the crowd turned its attention toward him. “I went to get help!” he said defensively.
Ladrian took another step. Almost through, and then …
“He took liberties with my fiancée!” The words came from a booming voice. Brock Rodes Jr. stood directly in Ladrian’s path, the only thing between her and the safety of an iron cell. He held a large ax in his hands. Not a woodsman’s tool, but a genuine weapon of war. “Athra Jaims robbed my betrothed of her virtue a year ago in Evenhearth,” he growled.
“Your betrothed,” came a quiet moaning voice, “found me too drunk to walk and climbed on top of me in the Flatbread Inn.” It was the outlaw that spoke, his face pressed up against the haunches of the large horse from where he hung over its back. “If anything, she took liberties with me.”
A look of anger flashed across the face of the young man. Then he smiled wildly, hefted his ax, and took a step forward. Ladrian brought up the flintlock instinctively and aimed it at the young man’s face.
“You already used your shot,” smiled Brock Jr. with a low growl.
“I’m aware of that.” Ladrian tried her best to keep her voice calm. “This here is what’s known as a would be.”
“A would be?”
“That’s right. As in, if people got warnings that kept them from getting shot in the face, this would be it.”
Uneasiness showed in the young man. “Are you threatening me, constable?”
“Noooo,” said Ladrian cooly. “I’m a duly appointed officer of the King’s Own, backed by Garamond edict and the full weight of the crown.” She hoped her face betrayed none of the fear she felt behind her eyes. “You’re threatening me.”
For a moment no one stirred. “Come on, Junior,” said Brock Rancit from near his friend’s shoulder. “We know where the outlaw is gonna be.”
Brock Rodes Jr. shrugged his friend’s hand from off his shoulder and looked Ladrian square in the eye. “You really think you can get that flintlock loaded and fired before I split you in half?” he asked in a sinister voice.
“Well, let’s see,” said Ladrian quickly. “I spent four years training swift reload in Argwylon before I was ever allowed to fire my weapon, so …” She watched the young man carefully, looking for any sign of doubt that she might exploit. “But we elves have a lot of time on our hands. Four years to us is just,” she snapped the fingers of her hand that wasn’t holding an empty weapon.
The young man didn’t flinch.
“Of course,” continued Ladrian, “if you’re right, and you do split me in half, in FULL VIEW OF THE ENTIRE TOWN,” she raised her voice to a crescendo, “you can live out your days knowing you’ll die at the hands of the Priori when they finally track you to wherever it is you choose to hide.”
And just like that, the resolve on the young man’s face waivered. There it was: the look of indecision that came from pondering the inescapable pain and torture that the Priori guaranteed. Brock Rodes Jr., along with the rest of the town, had seen what happened to the Priori’s victims. Ladrian fought back a shudder, remembering small bare feet that swayed lifelessly in the morning breeze.
The young man lowered his ax slightly and took a step to one side, but before Ladrian could get the horse through, he barked, “Chicken shit, constable. Siding with an outlaw over his own people.”
Ladrian didn’t turn around, and didn’t look back at the young man or his friends. “You ain’t my people,” she said, loud enough for all of them to hear.
The Mischief of Magpies is a western fantasy about four lost souls who sadly have no one but each other.
