The Race to the Blackened Nevers, Book 2, The Vulgar Victory: The Race to the Blackened Nevers, #1

By Douglas Bain

The race is on! The gods careen toward the Blackened Nevers. Pray you don't get in their way.

 

The race is joined by a court necrimate running to save his dead wife. Two dwarves discover their gods were cheated before the race even started. And two drudges find themselves lost and in need of a fallen runner. The race then heads to Bedlam's Thicket. What will the runners find in its tangles? Who will fall and who will sprint ahead, and what does winning truly mean in The Race for the Blackened Nevers?

 

The Vulgar Victory is the second book in the award-winning dark fantasy series The Race to the Blackened Nevers described as "a mythological masterpiece of fantasy fiction".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Bain
• Release date: Sep 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999180232

Book preview

Cover-title

The Vulgar Victory by Douglas Bain

Book Two of the dark fantasy series The Race to the Blackened Nevers

Toronto, Canada. First edition.

© 2020 Douglas Bain

@DBainWriter

[e-mail]

www.blackenednevers.com

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the author or publisher. For permissions, email [e-mail].

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in it are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-9991802-3-2

For Leo.

To victories, big guy.

break

Contents

Cast of Characters

Prologue

Part I: Trinkets and Trunks

Chapter 1: The Huffings and Puffings

Chapter 2: The Writ of Quicken

Chapter 3: The Feral Enchantments

Chapter 4: A Steeplechase for Dunces

Chapter 5: The Wicked Trinkets in a Necrimate’s Case

Chapter 6: The Thieving Strum

Chapter 7: Careful the Gods You Criticize

Chapter 8: The Measures of Shivery Coffinfit

Chapter 9: A Doubt of Mouth

Chapter 10: The Merchant of Wonder

Chapter 11: The Thin Beer in Marvelous Taverns

Chapter 12: The Brisk Commerce of Bratten Breg

Part II: Unwelcome Miracles

Chapter 13: The Miracle at the Yew Tree

Chapter 14: The Whispers of the Carbori

Chapter 15: Converts Abound

Chapter 16: The Crowded Inkwell

Chapter 17: Mother Inferior

Chapter 18: Those Odious Miracles

Chapter 19: A Fate from Hot Debate

Chapter 20: Lingering Between the Stones

Chapter 21: The Blue-eyed and Dead-eyed

Chapter 22: Thievery of the Highest Order

Chapter 23: The Bridge to Bedlam’s Thicket, Part I

Chapter 24: The Bridge to Bedlam’s Thicket, Part II

Part III: Bedlam’s Thicket

Chapter 25: The Requim

Chapter 26: A Mother and the Brittle Sun

Chapter 27: Aris Loves Cherries

Chapter 28: Rutting in the Sludge

Chapter 29: Were I My God’s Gamble

Chapter 30: Castigations off Familiar Lips

Chapter 31: Nothing More Than Hem and Haw

Chapter 32: A Simple Shepherd’s Death

Chapter 33: The Faith Gods Place in Mortals

Part IV: The Blackened Nevers

Chapter 34: A Blade Back to the Puncture

Chapter 35: Bargains in the Loam of Old Death

Chapter 36: The Shores of Agony

Chapter 37: Cormorants and Mr. Justice

Chapter 38: The Writing Finds Its Wall

Chapter 39: On Belief That Beggars Belief

Chapter 40: The Worth of a Fox Birth

Chapter 41: The Pulchrous Mother

Chapter 42: The Charge at the Millean Gate

Chapter 43: Faults and Their Results

Chapter 44: Wrath for Solo Flute

Chapter 45: The Miscreant and the Righteous

Chapter 46: Whispers in the Womb

Cast of Characters

The Gods

Aelic: The god of fate. His cords tie him to every mortuant in creation.

Aris: The god of the brae. His temple lies in the Gudfin Mountain.

Bragnal: The prince of the gods. With his scale he weighs god and mortuant alike.

Civiak: The god of jest and tricks. Long of tongue and sharp of wit.

Corvii: The god of time. Husband of Vestialis. Father of Louthe.

Dhoorval: The god of law and His High Majesty’s court.

Digrir: The god of wayward children.

Fitzhiff: The god of music. One of the three gods punished by Bragnal for starting a race.

Forrar: Child goddess of autumn. Daughter of Corvii.

Georwrith: Child goddess of winter. Daughter of Corvii.

Gollunt: Patron god of the 12th Leggat.

Kellcrim: Connachen’s god of compassion, a trait unwelcome among the condemned men of the 12th Leggat.

Krynon: The god of the Rowlach people, who shuns his own creations.

Louthe: Wandering child god. Son of Corvii and Vestialis.

Mag: The Colmrakken god of gambling.

Methulla: The god of truth surrounded by his six birds.

Morven: —?—

Rawl: The god of strength. Stoic—indeed, utterly silent.

Salagrim: The god of vision. One-eyed and forever searching.

Sowrug: Child goddess of summer. Daughter of Corvii.

Vestialis: The goddess of love. One of three gods punished by Bragnal for starting a race.

Woadbrek: The god of drink.

Yaarach: Child goddess of spring. Daughter of Corvii.

Zernebruk: The god of harvest. One of three gods punished by Bragnal for starting a race.

The Drudges

Amariss and Juliet: Fitzhiff’s singing ghouls.

Chezepock: Husband of Pennylegion.

Macionica: Drudge to Morven and keeper of her Wall of Yearning.

Mulloch Furdie: Minder of the lysergic and amphetamined fires.

Nyqueed: Drudge to Fitzhiff. Known as the Black Song Man. Three chords and a tale of woe.

Pennylegion: Drudge to Vestialis. Wife of Chezepock.

The Carvers

Creche of the Donlands: Virtuoso. His aesthetic is to fill every inch of his work.

Frew the Elder: Official sculptor to His High Majesty.

Frew the Younger: Iconoclastic and snide. His signature is a carved explosion.

Jegs: The people’s carver.

The Mortuants

Agajin Hiscum: Elderly Gudfin priest. Corrupt to the bone.

Aramis: Captain of His High Majesty’s Samidian knights.

Balkan: Former court attendant to the chief justice of His High Majesty’s court. Last of the Rowlach.

Bashquake: Dwarf. Tutor of Scramhammer. Hater of humans.

Bockum: Silver-tongued soldier of the 12th Leggat.

Bratten Breg: Purveyor of folded shortcuts and vials of hustle.

Bulstoy: Court-appointed necrimate to the Stroman people.

Charlotte: Orphan in the care of the Brothers of Digrir.

Cheon: Wounded soldier of the 12th Leggat.

Chim Wiscum: Brae boy. Brother of Phae. As penitent as his sister is skeptical.

Connachen: Captain of His High Majesty’s 12th Leggat, The Thunder that Wanders.

The Court: Chief Justice Sova and Justices Uby, Tock, Orade, Haud, Ramnach, and Lain.

Fiddich: Fastidious priest of Bragnal.

Fignith: The last Rowlach girl.

Gogarburn: Healer in His High Majesty’s 12th Leggat.

Griscomb: Kindly prison guard of the Clovenstone Stockade.

Kaif: One of two vanturian guards in the 12th Leggat.

Lostrus: Captain of the gendarme in Quardinal’s Brawn.

Madrigan: The finest connoisseur of pitch in all of Quardinal’s Brawn.

Manion: Old Methullian knight. Serving below his station.

Mogh: Torrefact outcast.

Ostaig: Colmrakken prisoner of the Clovenstone Stockade.

Phae Wiscum: Brae girl. Sister of Chim. As skeptical as her brother is penitent.

Scramhammer: Dwarven king-to-be.

Scrieve: Official scribe to the 12th Leggat.

Surick: Dead wife of Bulstoy the necrimate.

Thaltis: Criminal overlord of Quardinal’s Brawn.

Wergoyle: Loyal advisor to Bockum and keeper of doves.

Wulfric: One of two vanturian guards in the 12th Leggat. A tall, Jarlspeen bundle of woe.

Zollern: A soldier in His High Majesty’s 12th Leggat. Ever waiting for his god Rawl to speak.

PROLOGUE

The four carvers rushed in, stabbing at the obelisk with their chisels like conspirators attacking a despot. The first worked nervously, the third with irritation, the second as elegantly as a descending swan, and the fourth, crowded from all sides, was starved of room.

The dust from their work filled the air for seven days. When it lifted, the carvers gathered to read what they had written:

Those slow to start,

They are not mine.

Brother, all will dash

To the finish line.

Give it time.

Why, I wager even Death and his glooms

Will all join the race—

Even the Ghorak dooms?

Let them nip at Bragnal’s legs.

They are nothing but a carver’s dregs.

My Ghorak are more than that, my brothers.

I think they’ll be quicker than all the others!

Never!

Let Vestialis find her boy.

Let Fitzhiff find his musical toy.

Let Zernebruk soil who he must.

Let Mag’s dice roll, let Rawl’s ax rust.

But never let the Ghorak feed

On quicks, and swifts, and racing speed.

On this are we agreed?

Agreed.

Brother, do you accede?

Never. For my Ghorak are clever.

And you forget the mortuant lever.

Shall I pull it? I think I shall.

Watch what tumbles from him now.

Never!

        Never!

                Never!

PART I

Trinkets and Trunks

CHAPTER 1

The Huffings and Puffings

The morning sunlight pouring through the rupture in the wall of the Clovenstone Stockade bathed the dying prison guard in its warm light. It had taken him one full hour to drag his broken body the three feet required to receive this last touch of grace. So when Bashquake’s head emerged from the hole and threw the poor man into shadow once again, much more than his face fell dark.

A simpler question, then, the old dwarf muttered. "Did you see any dwarves?"

The prison guard opened his eyes; his lips moved, but no sound arrived.

Answer me.

The man gave a limp shake of his head.

Are you sure? Because not two seconds ago, back there—Bashquake thumbed over his shoulder to the world on the other side of the wall, the muddy path and the dead bodies that lay strewn along it—"a dying Leggatman said he thought he saw three. ’Course he had arrows in both his eyes."

In fairness to the guard, with the last of his life ebbing, winning an argument with a dwarf was the least of his worries. He turned away and his gaze fell distant.

Bashquake snorted. He hollered over his shoulder. "Now this one’s saying he never saw any dwarves. Do you believe him, pup-king?"

Believe a human? Scramhammer replied, his voice muffled by the wall. On a matter near and dear to a dwarf? His head appeared at the far end of the hole, cast in the light from the rising sun beyond the stockade. Never.

Best be sure, then. Bashquake shifted and squirmed, pulled and tugged, and, having exhausted all his mutters and curses, tumbled from the gap into the corridor of the Clovenstone Stockade.

He dusted himself off and saw that the prison had fared no better than the muddy road beyond it. Bodies littered the floor like fleshy stones pressed up from the masonry. They were Leggatmen, prisoners, and guards alike, and not a dwarf among them.

I think I saw a dwarf running from the kitchen.

Bashquake turned to find an old prisoner who, judging by the gaping wound in his chest, was about to suffer his last breath. He grabbed the dying man’s face.

You humans keep changing your answers like this and I’m gonna get mad.

But here, providence interceded once again. The man’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he slumped against the wall.

Filthy, lying humans, Bashquake muttered.

Behind him came the thumps, scrapes, and rattles of Scramhammer collecting himself after his own tumble through the hole.

What do they say now? the young dwarf asked, as he slapped the dust from his palms.

They say they might’ve seen a dwarf running from the kitchen.

Why do these humans keep changing their mind? It’s not a hard question.

That’s the way with them, isn’t it? Bashquake’s eyes narrowed as he took in his young charge. What’s wrong with your face? You look like you’ve been sucking on a thistle. He feigned a startle and acted out a swoon. "Has the pup-king had . . . a thought?"

Scramhammer took in the burnt ceiling beams for a moment. "Well, here’s the thing. Hear me out. Perhaps we’ve been asking these humans the wrong questions. We’ve been honest about our interest in dwarves from the beginning, haven’t we? Dwarf this. Dwarf that. And what have we gotten in return?"

Bashquake lifted a bloody sword with his boot and kicked it over the stones. Rank lies, of course. As usual.

Well, what if we ask them a different question?

What do you have in mind, pup-king?

Well, what if we all quiet-like, completely matter-of-fact, ask them—Scramhammer’s hands and eyes spread wide—"What happened here?"

He’d hoped his words would have a profound effect, but the old dwarf stared at him as if he’d just given birth to a teapot. More convincing was needed.

Why would they lie about that? We’d just be asking for a simple account of this mess. No mention of dwarves at all. Like a taxman or an undertaker.

Bashquake thought over the proposition. Like a taxman or an undertaker. You know, that’s not half bad, pup-king. Not half bad at all. He dropped to his haunches before a Leggatman pinned under a ceiling beam.

Hi there, human, he said, adopting an affectation that made him sound less human than he’d hoped and more like a weasel trapped in a sewer pipe. Could you tell us what has happened here, please?

The soldier gazed at him weakly. What happened to your questions a-about dwarves?

Never you mind our earlier questions. This is the one we favor now. You just tell us what happened here.

It was the . . . These three words took what remained of the man. But Bashquake would not let the stark biological fact of his expiration deter him in the slightest. He leaned in.

Playing coy, are we?

He waited. The man, predictably, did not respond. Bashquake got to his feet and nudged him with his foot. The effort only confirmed it: the man was very dead. Don’t you know it’s rude to die mid-conversation? Bashquake grumbled.

It was then they heard the wet slither of a prison guard dragging himself over the stone floor. They approached and Bashquake rolled him onto his back, revealing two daggers thrust into his shoulders.

"The race! the man whispered, splitting his doddering attention between the two dwarves. But as soon as he had uttered the word race," Bashquake was on his young charge. He grabbed Scramhammer by the shoulder and dragged him farther down the hallway.

Filthy, lying humans, eh, pup-king? What they won’t say? One says nothing, the other can’t stop babbling!

Bashquake had acted so quickly, so incongruously, that Scramhammer was dispossessed of his faculties for a moment. He jerked free and drew his old tutor to a halt.

What? asked Bashquake.

Scramhammer pointed back to the dying guard. That human was about to tell us something about the race.

So?

The young dwarf leaned in until they were nose to nose. So, why did you cut him off before he could tell us?

I didn’t cut him off. He died!

He didn’t die. Look! He crawls on.

So, now you want to listen to humans and not your tutor, is that it?

Scramhammer looked aside. No, I–I just—

I swore to your blessed mother and father that I’d prepare you for your throne, not fill your head with nonsense about the race. Shall I also apprise the pup-king of who among the human children wins at hide-and-go-seek? Forget the race, boy. It’s a steeplechase for dunces.

Scramhammer blushed under this withering barrage. Bashquake, softening, gave his young charge a slap on his shoulder. Your blessed mother paid me to instruct you on the ways of dwarves, not humans. She paid me to outline for you the plots and traps that might ensnare you on your throne. She did this so you’d stand half a measure of sitting on it long enough to take a clean breath.

Scramhammer tried to look away, but Bashquake followed his gaze, staring intently at the young dwarf. Understood?

Scramhammer nodded, and they resumed their march down the hall until they came upon another gap much larger than the one they had used to enter the Clovenstone Stockade. The rupture was so high and wide they could see all the way to the bridge over the high road river and the road leading to the gates of the city of Quardinal’s Brawn in the distance. Bodies lay strewn over the rubble as if this breach had been fiercely contested.

Scramhammer picked up a sword from the floor. Ever seen a symbol like this? He gestured to the Leggat eagle carved into the hilt. The old dwarf shook his head when a muffled voice came to their ears. They turned to a pile of dead soldiers.

The words grew louder as Scramhammer rolled two bodies off the stack, and with the third body rolled away, the words of the dying man at the bottom of the pile escaped clearly into the hall. Bockum!

Bockum? Who’s Bockum?

He’ll win the race, you just watch, the soldier replied, staring off as if angels were gathering above him. But, here again, as soon as the word race had tumbled off the man’s lips, Bashquake grabbed his young charge’s arm and yanked him down the hall.

Why don’t we talk about something more interesting, pup-king, like which kingdom you’ll reign over when the time comes? I hear the Festerbilge Muds are beautiful this time of year. The mud, you see, achieves a sheen, thanks to the spring rains, and I’m told the mud looks remarkably like—

Scramhammer wrenched himself free, ran back, and clasped the dying man’s face. This race. Tell me more.

The soldier’s eyes opened, languid and glossy. How long has it been since the last one?

The last one? How many have there been?

Three, of course. Not counting the present sprint. The man coughed up a spatter of blood, then grinned. But none of them had Bockum as a runner.

Bockum? Who’s this Bockum? And this race, are there any dwarves in it? Answer me!

The man’s grin grew so wide that it seemed intent on exceeding his cheeks. But once it settled into place, he too expired, the grin frozen on his face. Scramhammer let him go and glared at Bashquake.

You didn’t tell me there’s been three races. You said this was the first.

First. Third. What’s the difference?

And you said the race was for human half-wits. You said it wasn’t fit for a dwarf to even turn his mind to, but that human there, when I asked him whether dwarves were running in it, he looked at me like a fox caught with a chicken in his mouth. Why? His eyes narrowed. Are you lying to me, old dwarf?

Bashquake sighed and ran his finger through the soot on a charred ceiling beam that had crashed to the floor. So, now you believe humans over your own tutor, is that it? He rubbed the soot between his fingers and tasted it. Do you not remember our little run-in with humans in the Ragged Heel tavern? They all share one mind between ’em. And it’s a mind filled with thievery and lies, all of it at dwarven expense. You must remember. And yet, despite all that, you want to trust them and you accuse your old tutor of being the liar instead?

Then why did that human tell me more about the race in his dying breath than you ever have?

Let me get this straight. You think your tutor—paid good money by your loving mother and father to clean you up for your throne—you think I should’ve filled your head with bits and bobs about a race being run by humans? Is that it? That’s what you think I should have been spending my time instructing you on? The huffings and puffings of these humans? Bashquake snorted. If they’re running, they’re probably running in circles, thrashing and flailing around like a bunch of fish in a net. Listen to yourself.

The old dwarf drew his protege down the corridor once again. Now, enough of races. Did you notice these holes in the wall? There’s only one bit of shot that could cause that damage. Listen close, pup-king; good ballistics are based on good—

"It isn’t humans who run the race . . . it’s the gods!"

Bashquake bent to this new voice at their feet, a dying prison guard whose face still rattled from his sudden interjection. Who asked you? the old dwarf roared, hot as a kettle coming to a boil.

CHAPTER 2

The Writ of Quicken

Justice Tock finished signing the scroll. The attendant withdrew, cradling it as if the last dot of the magistrate’s signature were about to fall like a pebble. And last but not least, we hear from the blessed necrimate. The judge rubbed his weary eyes. We wait with bated breath.

Bulstoy stepped forward. If it please, m’lord.

"It most assuredly does not please me, but I don’t imagine that will stop you."

Bulstoy’s brow, sunbaked and cracked by years on the harsh Stroman moors, contracted into a scowl. He rearranged his fingers on the handle of the worn wooden case that pulled him lopsided as he stared down the row of judges.

He wore a black jacket with silver buttons, the fabric so scratched and burnished it looked as if he’d been in a tumble with a pack of leopards. Pinned to the garment with a bone of uncertain origin was the large red badge of a royal necrimate. The jacket hung unbuttoned, exposing his naked torso and the red-and-brown pattern of dried blood that resembled the cross-section of a honeycomb.

Well, go on. Spit it out! Justice Uby said. He swallowed hard and gestured with his glass for some water, which an attendant dutifully rushed in to provide.

The judges stared at Bulstoy from their ornate chairs as if he were a pox that had blown into their tent.

Well? Speak, man!

The writ of quicken you issued me. It was wrong.

The attendants froze in their tracks. As a unit they slinked away from their stations, wringing their hands, hoping to disappear into the shadows of the tent. The judges exchanged glances down their line of chairs.

How dare you? Justice Uby said, pointing his finger at him like a hound to a kill.

The writ was what? Justice Tock asked.

Bulstoy stroked his beard, revealing the punished, gravelly skin of his fist and knuckles. Scars, like the hull of an old boat, ran up his forearm. I thought you knew. He could feel the black stares from the men and women watching from behind burrowing into his neck. He said the news would carry on crickets and voles.

He said what?! He? He, who? What the devil is this man babbling about? said elderly Justice Ramnach.

Go on, you little tattletale. Tell them about your new friend, Zernebruk. I’m sure they’ll believe you.

Bulstoy shook the voice from his head and spat out a series of curses, sending a ripple of shock through the onlookers. He sneered at them as he withdrew a piece of parchment from his jacket pocket and flattened it on his thigh.

Justice Tock snapped his fingers. His attendant rushed to Bulstoy, snatched the paper, and delivered it to him. The magistrate gestured impatiently for the candle on the table beside him. The aide held it out, shielding the light with his palm.

Where is the error, necrimate? The seal of the court is here. He set his spectacles in place. ‘By authority of the court of corpus, omnius santi sanquin, the body of the Stroman male, Hors Main, farmer’s son, husband, father, is deemed delivered in sacrifice to the great and holy Bragnal, that he may succeed in every endeavor of his choosing with speed and verve’! He flicked the paper with his finger. ‘Town square.’ He flicked again. ‘The first moon.’ Another flick. ‘Body to face the Eastern Sea.’ He dipped his spectacles and leaned forward in his chair. Was clear common tongue, expressed in short sharp sentences, not enough for this order to burrow into your simple brain, necrimate?

Let me draw the juices from his heart, Bulstoy. I’ll hollow his fingers for straws. We could sip his liver together like old friends.

Bulstoy flicked at his ear like a flea-bitten dog and in so doing let go of his necrimate case. It landed with a sound like an overburdened merchant’s wagon on a bumpy trail.

The victim was written correctly, Bulstoy said. But the death was written wrong. He checked the audience’s reaction from the corner of his eye.

The devil do you mean? Where did the man die, then?

Beyond the edge of the village. Beside the pond.

Gasps escaped from the corners of the tent. The attendants again froze in their tracks.

On public lands?! Justice Ramnach’s chin was trembling. Most irregular. He gestured wildly for water, grabbing at his throat as if he were choking.

So, the sacrifice fled the order and you struck him down as he ran. What of it? Justice Uby said. We shall amend the writ. A few strokes of the pen and we will be on our way from this distressing drain of time and resources. Given the hour, we’ll no doubt have to cross Bedlam’s Thicket if we’re to return to Quardinal’s Brawn in any civilized fashion. And I hope my learned colleagues do not forget that we have judgments of some import to render.

The old clerk sitting at a magnificent desk in the corner of the tent beamed at this. He held his pen over the scroll before him like it was a circling hawk waiting to descend. The pen, like the scroll and the collar of his robes, was illuminated by the cold, blue light of his eyes, a light that matched the glow of the ornate stamp on the pedestal behind him.

The stamp depicted the god of the court, Dhoorval, with a giant book spread open on his knees; the pages had been carved to look like gleaming swords arcing across one cover to the next. The artistry was that of Creche, the virtuoso carver who filled every inch of his works with detail and filigree, and the court stamp was no exception. It was bursting with fine flourishes, but the figure of Dhoorval was the focus. He was depicted with one eye cast down to the book, the other, at odds with its counterpart, forward and staring at the viewer. That eye had been imbued with such craving, such an undeniable appetite and lust, that it was not uncommon for the judges of the court to dismiss yet another hopeless request for leniency with scornful allusions to the longing left of Dhoorval.

Justice Orade leaned forward from the last chair in the line. Surely my learned brother justice is not suggesting we would undercut the sanctity of a writ of quicken by amending it after the fact to fit the homicidal urges of this necrimate?

Justice Uby instantly saw his error and blushed. Justice Orade continued, delight spreading over his face, his voice lingering over his next words like a bow drawing over a cello’s strings.

"Surely my learned brother does not suggest we should condone flaunting the court’s process? For if we countenance such behavior now, as my learned brother suggests, why shouldn’t all matters of the court be treated so? What point would there be to such writs? Indeed, why have the court at all? It seems my learned brother is content that the necrimates of this land should blaze a path to suit their own interests, and the royal court should simply follow after, painting judicial sanction in their wake."

"That, most assuredly, was not what I was saying."

Then it behooves the court to inquire further, does it not, learned brother? To get the measure of this non-compliance and judge our response accordingly?

So it does. Justice Uby slapped away the fawning gestures of his attendant and sank back into his chair, deflating like a balloon.

Justice Tock allowed his counterpart a moment to shine after his excoriation, then held up the parchment Bulstoy had produced. My learned brother has a point, necrimate. What you have told us begs further inquiry. Let me ask about the time. Is that wrong, as well? When did the death occur?

I don’t know, your honor. The corpse was stiff when I found it.

An attendant dropped his urn of oil.

Well, his spleen was still warm. If you’d taken the time to check, Bulstoy.

Get out of my head! Bulstoy snarled under his breath as he punched his left ear.

You found it? Justice Tock’s glasses shook at the end of his nose. Do you mean to say you did not take this man’s life? Do you mean to say it was taken with no regard at all for the dictates of His High Majesty’s writ of quicken?

The corpse had been torn in two, Bulstoy replied. It was no Stroman man or woman who took his life. It was something else. Something that does not heed the king’s writs.

Was it now? A monster from the depths, perhaps? Justice Orade replied in a cool, sarcastic tone.

Yes, a monster, or a horror from the shadows. Some beast. Bulstoy fretted with the fringe of his jacket. And it has infested my mind.

A horror from the shadows? Is that what you think of me, dear Bulstoy?

Justice Tock pounded on the arm of his chair. Or is all this not more accurately described as a twist of bloody lies!

No Stroman could have caused that death, said Bulstoy.

No Stroman could have caused that death. Really? Justice Tock gestured for his attendant, who darted in with another scroll and unfurled it with a flourish. He held it up before the judge, looking away as if the dignity of a maiden were at issue.

Let’s review the record then, shall we? Justice Tock said. He looked up from the scroll. And my apologies to those of my colleagues with weak stomachs. Back his eyes went.

The 389th day of Septims. He traced the words with his finger. Writ of quicken issued. A Stroman woman, name of Cashziel. Twenty-seven years old. Bowels ordered removed through small of the back. For the speed of Bragnal. He lingered a moment, letting the image foul the air. Justice Ramnach covered his wrinkled lips with his handkerchief and looked away.

The 389th day of Tundar, Justice Tock continued. Writ of quicken issued. A Stroman man, name of Hilk. Seventy-three years of age. He looked down his nose at Bulstoy. Spine ordered exposed, wrapped in nettles, pressed with three blocks of limestone. For the speed of Bragnal.

He took off his glasses and gestured for the attendant to take the scroll away. And so, you must excuse my incredulity, necrimate, when you say here today, before His High Majesty’s court, that no one in this Stroman village is capable of the death you’ve described when, indeed, as the court’s records show, you are most able in this field.

Bulstoy looked over his shoulder again. He wanted the crowd of Stroman to hear what he had to say next. "You know as well as I that those killing strokes were at the court’s request. Your request. And I admit I may have relished their anguished gurgles. He sneered at a Stroman man at the back of the tent. Particularly your sister’s." The man sputtered in shock. Bulstoy turned back to the court, his hand still pointing backward.

But I am no heathen killer. I do so on the orders of this court. My kills are sanctified. He bowed his head and spoke into his chest. As is my duty as your necrimate.

Oh, your devotion to malevolence is delicious, Bulstoy! It must be what drew me to you.

Justice Haud smiled warmly. A smile he tried to share with his colleagues. A smile to cleanse the air. Now, now, he said, entering the fray. There’s no need for such a tone, my dear man. You wouldn’t be the first necrimate this court has seen who has taken liberties with the position to settle an old blood feud or turn a tiny profit. You needn’t be so bashful. The court is only asking that you be honest, goodly necrimate.

Go on, Bulstoy, tell them. It’s honesty they want. Tell them about the demon god of the moors that has invaded your brain.

Bulstoy shook his head to the side as if trying to clear water from his ear. The court doesn’t understand. I am telling you, clearly and calmly, that no Stroman is capable of this death. This man was fit as a whip when he left his home. His wife, she would tell you that herself, if she wasn’t . . .

Wasn’t what, man? Justice Tock asked.

Bulstoy turned around to look at the assembled Stroman again. Dead as well, your honor.

Gasps rang out, scrolls dropped, cups being filled with water overflowed.

These proceedings will now have to be conjoined, Justice Ramnach said in his ancient rattle, looking down the row of judges and dabbing his lips with water from his glass. Briefs in tanto entered!

Justice Haud put up his hand to call order. Is there anything else you’d like to add to this abominable execution of your duties, necrimate Bulstoy, before we consider our decision?

Go on, Bulstoy, tell them. Tell them everything!

The child, Bulstoy whispered.

And what of the child, man?

She was dead as well. With the parents.

Justice Ramnach shuddered like a rung bell. A claim of tri-corpus? At this hour?

Justice Uby threw up his hands. Such a claim will require leave of the court. The record will have to be expanded. Evidence commissioned!

Justice Tock clenched the writ in his fist and shook it like a rattle. "This writ of quicken speaks of one body, necrimate. One body! Not three. You have walked His Majesty’s grace too far."

I told you. I only found the bodies. It was that thing that did it. No Stroman could have carved their flesh like that, not even me.

They’ll never believe you, Bulstoy. And now, just watch. They will compound my little horror. They will have no choice. For the race is on, and Bragnal must have his sip of quickening blood, whether you spilled it or not.

Justice Orade, prim and resplendent from delivering his earlier rebuke, shook his head and sighed. He leaned forward and spoke with the weary voice of a parent at their wit’s end.

And yet this writ of quicken, which this court issued to you and no other, called for the death of this very man. This very man! By your hand. He shot Bulstoy a withering look. You may take my colleagues for fools, necrimate, but do not take me for one.

It’s coming, Bulstoy. Just watch.

I did not kill this man and his family. There is something . . .

What am I, Bulstoy?

. . . something on the moors . . .

Right so far, you little bastard.

. . . something evil . . .

I’m evil now, am I?

. . . something wretched . . .

Ooh, you bare your own claws now!

. . . and it killed these people. Not me!

Chortles burst from the assembled Stroman. Bulstoy turned and glared at them when Justice Haud punctured the silence that had descended by leaning forward in his chair.

Well, in the end, what’s at issue here? Two—three—Stroman lives? We’re not exactly presented with a loss of high jurisprudential import, now, are we? His words teased out nods from his colleagues. And His High Majesty cannot presume to govern every necrimate at every moment, now, can he? Surely he must expect the spool to run on occasion?

He was stitching together a consensus. Everyone now turned to Justice Lain as his attendant leaned in to fill his cup. The young judge, in studious reflection on a passage of the book open in his lap, politely refused the water. His attendant stepped back and shared a look of horror with the others milling around their respective judges. Then Justice Lain finally caught all eyes on him.

Well, it’s just, you see, he began, there does appear to be contradictory jurisprudence. I’m reminded of the ruling of this court in—

Justice Haud cut the young judge off with a wave of his hand. Then we are all in agreement. He turned back to Bulstoy while Justice Lain’s attendant wrenched the book from his hands and filled the judge’s cup to overflowing.

The more worrisome aspect of this situation is, of course, that none of this butchery was sanctified in the name of Bragnal. It is that, and that alone, that should be the overriding concern of the court at this juncture.

Poor Bulstoy. No one believes you. And now Bragnal gets his bit of blood. A little sip of sweet, sweet nectar for the sprint to come. And me? I’ll get his priest. They won’t be able to resist adding him to the mix. Just watch.

Justice Orade pinched his forehead in frustration. Tell me—Bragnal preserve!—tell me this was not done in the name of your own pagan god?

I told you. No Stroman killed this family. Bulstoy was speaking as much to the assembly of his people as he was to the judges. There is something on the moors. Something wicked. The court must act. It is butchering without consequence. A-and it’s infecting my mind.

Justice Tock threw up his hands in exasperation. Look at this mess. The writ of quicken has been treated with utter contempt, and this necrimate gives us nothing but lies. He sat back in his chair. I am at a complete loss.

Do you think we relish these orders, necrimate? Do you think we enjoy sacrificing the good people of this land? Justice Sova, having put her final signature on a scroll, removed her glasses and handed them to her retreating attendant. She held out her cup and another swooped in to fill it.

We do not. We do so to show devotion and love to the prince of gods, Bragnal. For him to speed through the heavens bringing light and life where he goes. Can you think of a more noble cause? And what do you contribute to this glorious work? You give us this . . . this abomination.

Yes, wench. How can you let Bragnal’s magnificence be compromised so? And with the race hanging in the balance. The court must act, mustn’t it? You watch, Bulstoy. They will bring him to me. You just watch.

If your Bragnal is pleased by these vile orders, Bulstoy said, swatting at his ear again, then he is truly a foul god.

The clerk in the corner of the tent spasmed at this and collapsed onto his desk. Attendants rushed forward. The assembled judges fell into a froth of indignation. And it was this burst of chaos that finally roused Fiddich from his book.

The young priest of Bragnal had been ignoring the proceedings as he always did, finding solace in a passage of his well-thumbed Bragnalian open on the table before him. But the pandemonium that had descended in the tent captured his attention now.

Justice Sova dipped her fingers into her glass and stroked the corners of her mouth. Fortunately, in the courts of His High Majesty, it is not for the subject to order the court, but for the court to order the subject, she said in a calm, measured tone that settled the room. And order you we shall, make no mistake.

Here it comes. You’ve done well, Bulstoy.

Your excellence, please. The grit in Bulstoy’s voice was gone. He was pleading now. Never have I seen bodies broken and split like the bodies of this Stroman family. There is a horror among us.

Justice Sova sat back in her chair and let out a long, exasperated sigh. I am speechless, necrimate. Speechless! You stand before the assembled judges of His High Majesty’s court and all we ask—all we’ve ever asked—is that you speak honorably, that you speak the truth. And yet here you are—you lie to our faces.

This is not a lie! Bulstoy roared. Two attendants came to stand at either side of him. He stepped back, riled by their approach.

We must salvage something from this depraved act, Justice Tock said, turning to Justice Sova.

We shall, brother. This horror will not go unsanctioned. If Bragnal dips no more than his toe into the stream of their blood, it will be some fruitful end to this despicable affair.

Justice Sova dispatched her attendant, who whispered into Fiddich’s ear. The priest of Bragnal closed his Bragnalian, rose, and bowed to the assembled judges. As he passed Bulstoy, he drew his robes close to avoid any contact.

We must elevate these deaths to something with at least a shade of dignity, Justice Sova said when Fiddich arrived at her side. So, I want you to see to it that all three of them are given burial rites.

All three? Fiddich exclaimed. At this hour? He leaned toward her. We are late enough, Chief Justice. We will have to pass through Bedlam’s Thicket just to make it back to Quardinal’s Brawn in time for you to deliver your judgments. May I suggest that the question is, rather, whether the rites must be performed at all? These are, after all, rank savages, mum. Bragnal’s appetite for formal proceedings in such dim circumstances is, if it exists at all, no doubt limited.

Justice Sova drew away from him and stared the color from his face.

They will be done, Fiddich corrected.

I seek a burial, priest, not a cardinal ceremony of vempers. She waved him away, then snapped her fingers at the clerk.

He took up his pen, his blue eyes again spilling their light onto the scroll in front of him. And there he waited, like a child listening at a door for the approach of his birthday cake.

Justice Sova looked down the line of judges; the consensus was clear. Clear, that is, from every judge but Justice Lain, who looked on in confusion. She nodded, then stiffened in her chair.

"For the lives of these three Stroman, taken illegally by their necrimate, in defiance of the writ of quicken properly issued by this court, we order . . . nothing."

The candle flames seemed to flicker at these words. The Stroman men and women glanced about in bewilderment. The clerk threw down his pen and pushed himself from the desk in disgust.

But as this is a sitting of the court of corpus, she continued, and not some tribunal of plain equities, we cannot let the events here before us go without a proper accounting. The clerk licked his lips and snatched up his pen again.

You have served me well, Bulstoy. When I cross the finish line