As they left the West Tower where all the prisoners in the Tharpe district were kept and started down the street known as Judgment Way, named such for the mythical road that led to the seat of Grim in the Underworld. The cobbled street was packed by people who wanted to verify that the young man who had terrorized the countryside for years was truly going to the Temple. Too long had the Mother Matron’s bastard son been sheltered from the law, now all wanted to see at least one in that damned line dead.

So many people were packed in that the eight guards had to go in a single file line instead of the typical honor guard formation. It was not unusual for criminals to get escorted down Judgment Way, for any crime in the district was brought before the Matron or her second. But this one was one of the most hated in a century. Thomas marched out in front with glorious dreams playing in his head. The Sergeant would be the first officer ever in the East, awarded the highest accommodation for arresting this mad man and bringing him to justice. The young Sergeant was too intoxicated by his ambitions he failed to hear the crowd’s murmurings change from that of approval to one of revenge.

The townsfolk gathered around, for the most part, had come because they too had a debt to settle with this young man. They now endured the smell of the dockside, of the raw sewage, to catch sight of him and they felt cheated. Why should his mother get to have justice because he hit her? Damon had killed a few of their relatives and others had suffered from gangs that looted and pillaged for him. Why was she allowed revenge for such a small slight and for that matter if such a small slight elicited revenge, why should revenge not be extracted from the one who had been reaping more terror than this youth, the Matron herself? Many in the crowd murmured to the next asking these exact questions and the shouting turned to pushing.

The first rock came arching in from the edge of the jeering crowd and hit Salvo on the shoulder. The private dropped his unconscious charge, roaring in rage and drew his sword, with the ringing of fine steel, to cover Damon. The young man hit the ground and rolled to his feet startled instinctively and awake, looking around confused. Damon held his hands in front of him with the chains grasped as a flail. His body had came prepared for battle, while his mind grasped the situation.

Thomas gestured for the woman, a freckled-faced, copper-haired, fury of a woman, to be arrested. One of the corporals walked over and accosted the woman and brought her over, to the boos of the crowd. Damon relaxed him stance shamefaced as he realized what was going on. He looked on with interest at the situation as it unfolded.

“Miss, you are under arrest for the assault upon one of the guards of the Temple and attempted assault upon one who is to be tried as condemned. Both are punishable by death, but that will be up to the Most Beloved. Please step into line.”

The woman spat on the Sergeant and stepped into line next to Damon who looked at her, his dark eyes dancing with an amused look. The woman returned a gaze filled with venom. Damon gave her a little sarcastic, shy wave.

“What” she shot at Damon.

“Didn’t I kill your husband?” He asked amused, “Because I feel like I should know you from somewhere.”

“His name was Lewis, and I was his betrothed. Your mother of a bitch hung him.” She spat back at him. She turned her back angrily on him to end the conversation.

“Oh? So sad that now she will hang both of us.” He said casually, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. The red-head shrieked in anger as she turned to strike him. Damon easily sidestepped the clumsy strike, never losing his smile.

“Hope you go to the Planes of Chaos, you demon.” She yelled at him.

“My! You are a little moody.” He said walking behind her, dodging the now flying rotten vegetables and rocks.

The crowd was now infuriated at the arrest of a victim of Damon. He was no longer the primary target. The soldiers had arrested one of their own, a person in search of justice. They saw that as just one more gross overstepped of authority and were now throwing what they could find at the whole group. The walk that should have taken only fifteen minutes had now drawn to thirty, and they were only halfway there, just crossing Market Street. Thomas turned to young Corporal Jon directly behind him.

Thomas had picked the young Corporal for not only his swift feet but also because Jon was recently made a dad. The situation was likely to turn violent and Thomas wanted to get the young man away from the riot and also get the other Garrisons called in.

“Looks like we have a small problem but with a little show of force, we should be able to head off this mob before it gets any worse. Go have Corporal Wallace request muster of all four Garrisons and seal the gates.” Thomas ordered, and then he moved closer to the Corporal, “Son, do hurry things are going to get bloody. I don’t need the others to think it.”

The corporal turned to leave, and Thomas turned drawing steel and pulling his shield off of his back. The rest of the group did the same forming ranks around the prisoners. Thomas looked at Salvo with his sword out and shook his head looking at Damon and his chained feet. Salvo nodded, sheathing his sword and offering his arm to Damon, who hopped upon his shoulders. Thomas raised his booming voice above the crowd to serve the warning he dreaded to give. One that would plunge his group into a full out riot but it could not be helped.

“By the Order of the Mother Matron and the Power of The Grim, you are to disperse and make way. Anyone who does not after this warning will be held guilty of obstruction of justice against a condemned and will be put to death immediately.--” Thomas said in a loud voice as the crowd booed and shouted at him, “--Anyone who draws steel or raises violence against the Guard will be guilty immediately of treason of the highest order and will be cut down where you stand! This is your only warning. Now MAKE WAY!”

The guard drew into a wedge formation, locking their shields together and started down the way, and one of the corporals on the right-wing called a warning as a group rushed in. The Sergeant called out the order, and the wedge shifted as the point broke into the group. Thomas’s sword bit deeply into a woman, splitting her from naval to her breast, her intestines spilling out in front of her wide eyes to the stones below. A sword fell out of her hands, and Thomas’ eyes went wide. This was not a home forged piece but a fine work that was normally found in the hands of a trained warrior.

“They have weapons,” He called the warning to his squad of seven and prepared for a long fight.

Bethel paced back and forth. She had not slept all night for fear of this day. Today she would condemn her only child to death and then by tradition she would be his executioner. The thought made her shiver. Jen was waiting with her too. There was only ever four people who were present at a judgment: the Mother Matron, The Second, the accused, and a guard. Unlike in the Federation where the King or noble held a public court, open to all, the trial of the accused was between him, the Grim, and the law. There was no room for opinion or option but cut and dry.

This had aided Bethel in her rain of terror as she covered the tracks of her son. Soon it passed that, her greed had long got the hold on her. Petty insults that should have been ignored were now rewarded with taxes and tithes payable to her. Merchants caught with minor infraction would be punished with draconian practices. Jen had been a long loyal friend. Through it all, she had tried to help and to let her know when things were going too far.

The accused should have been here twenty minutes ago. The accused, she thought, what am I doing to myself. I have been trying to make myself think of him not as my child, and that is impossible.

An acolyte came running in the room out of breath with a face white with terror. She collapsed in front of the Mother Matron breathing hard with exertion. Both Jen and Bethel knelt and attended the girl to find out what she was running from. Nothing living could get inside the Temple without express permission from one of the three Necromancers that resided there. There was not a sorcerer that had ever lived with the power to break the Grim-ward, a powerful spell that shielded them from all. But something no terrified on the acolytes to the point of fainting and fear climbed into the backside of Bethel's mind.

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“Erica, what is it girl,” Bethel demanded, “What has happened.”

“The— the— Guard is—,” the girl breathed hard, “guard —under—attack..” Erica lapsed into unconsciousness as Bethel gave Jen a startled look. Jen shook her head as if to say she didn’t know what was happening and Bethel called out for one of the attending acolytes.

“Sara!” Bethel yelled urgently. If Tharpe was under attack somehow then her son was in danger.

The young dark-haired teenager came running and looked down startled at Erica and covered her mouth. Bethel rose and slapped her on the backside of her head, tossing her sandy hair forwards.

“No time for that now girl!” Bethel commanded her, “She came to warn us the guard is in trouble. I need to know what guard! GO!” The girl took off in a hurried run out the double doors of the Judgment Hall, and Bethel turned to Jen. Her Second got up shaking her head sorrowfully, reached to her side and grabbed the mace that hung there, bringing it to hand. She strode over to take up her position beside the Matron in a protective stance. Bethel looked grimly at Jen. In times of danger, it was the Second’s job to protect the Mother, even if it meant with her life.

“What happened Jen,” asked Bethel worriedly.

“She is dead, she had an arrow wound,--” Jen said pointing under her arm, her voice carefully void of emotion “--She pulled it out before she came here. It had to hit more than she thought.”

“Then right now we are under wartime rules Captain,” Bethel said, the fear starting to grow rapidly into her heart. Both Damon and Thomas were in the streets right now. “Let’s go to the gate’s and see what in the Grim’s sweet Underworld is going on!” They sprinted out of the Judgment Hall and into the corridor leading to the outside. Necromancer trained physically with the soldiers several times weekly. Each woman studied warfare so they could adequately care for the family that the Grim gave them. They ran down the main hallway and out the front door and they heard the mob getting louder as they went.

With the Grim-Ward in place, it would allow them time to observe to danger and formulate a defense. It was a gift from their immortal husband that could never be replaced, not by all the armies of the entire Continent of Ratar'. The shield was laid permanently by the All-Father himself when the Portal had been completed.

That kind of sorcery would be impossible for any mortal to put up permanently. The current necromancers at Tharpe could hold award up like it for three hours before they would die. The entire Sorcerer Council of the Free Cities could cast one that would last a few days before they to would perish. The ward was a blessing indeed and one that would not be cast aside lightly. Each Matron had the power to lower it in times of need when the Temple was needed, but lowering meant breaching it until the Grim could re-establish a link to the underworld to tap the power necessary to sustain it.

They reached the gate and climbed the stairs to the vantage point that acolytes sat to watch for petitioners and what they saw there was horrifying. The squad of seven men was in a circle formation, fighting towards the wall. They were still a bow shot off, and some were sorely wounded. A few stood by sheer will alone, fear of dying driving them. What they were fighting against was not your typical mob but armed men and women, some even wore light armor. Out in the distance, they heard horns blasting from the four towers, as the Garrisons were being called to full muster.

Bethel turned to Jen, “We have the closest garrison right here outside the Temple that has not been mustered. It is not under the control of the guard.”

“But that is only twenty-five men Bethel.” Jen protested in the horrid realization of her superior's plan that was taking mishappen shape.

“It has to be enough at the moment. If we can catch this crowd off balance, we could possibly buy enough time to get the rest of the men here.” Bethel said.

“There have to be at least six scores out there, but you are General,” she said in a little sigh of resignation, “Maybe if we tease the flanks, a little with hit and run, we can convince them that two of the Garrisons have made it in?”

“That strategy might work, break it into three. Send your best group to help cut out those seven men and get them to the Temple Gates.” Bethel ordered.

“Matron we don’t have enough time for any introductions,” her second reminded her as she was headed back out the stairs.

“I don’t plan to have any introductions Captain, now get.” She ordered. Jen stopped before the stone stairs leading to the courtyard and turned around to trot back to stand before Bethel.

“Bethel, I have always told you what I think, and I will do so now. Do not lower the Grim-Ward. We are safe right now. Even with all five garrisons here, that would not replace the ward. Let them fortify a tower.” Jen respectively warned her superior and friend, waving her handoff into the distant. This attribute was what Bethel appreciated about, her brutal and unadulterated honesty, regardless of the rank that separated them, but now was not the time for it.

“It is not just the guard. We, the Temple, protect all who need it. They can’t get in with the ward up. Your protest is duly noted, now get that garrison out there.” Bethel ordered.

“Yes General,” Jen said dully as she shrugged her shoulders glumly as she turned away.

Bethel sent out a mental command for any reaper in the area to report to her and shouted for the attending gate acolyte. The girl of thirteen winters showed up first. She was in a panic about the climatic events that were unfolding outside her duty station. Bethel placed a calming hand on her shoulder and spoke softly to her, trying in vain to impose calm on the startled girl.

“Child I have an important mission for you, do you understand me?--” The young girl nodded. “--Good,” Bethel continued, “up above the Gate House by way of the stairs in the Judgment Hall is a gong. It is enchanted, no invocation is needed, strike it with your open palm. Keep doing that until you are relieved. The sound will carry over the countryside to warn all of the danger in Tharpe. On your way by the Gate House, stop and send Isobelle here to be my Second. You are relieved of the Gate for now.”

The girl stood, mouth opening and closing repeatedly, as her face paled. Panic once more started to set in and she shook uncontrollably.

“Is there something the matter girl?” The Matron asked losing her patience, her voice gaining an edge of sharpened steel.

“I am sorry Mother,” the young girl stammered, “but I will fail at the assigned duties, for that room is warded against all except necromancers. I am not yet wed to our Master. He and I are not yet one.”

The Matron gave her a stern look and shook her head, speaking in a soft, low voice, her voice cracked with a little fear. “ Child, by the time you get there, the Grim-Ward will be lowered, and the Gate House will be unprotected, tell Isobelle we will soon be under attack. Now go, I need her now!”

The girl nodded her acceptance and darted off quickly, her white wedding dress fluttering behind her. All acolytes wore a wedding dress in hopes Grim would choose them, and they would be ready for permanent bonding to their Master at any time. Her whimpering could be heard echoing off the nearby, square granite towers as her steps rang towards the giant doors. A soft whisper came behind her, followed by bones clicking. She turned and saw her husband, Rascus had answered her summons. In all the years that she had hated the punishment of working with him, today she was thankful it was Rascus. He would have less regard for the rules and traditions of the Underworld, making his way to the Throne of Judgment quicker than the other reapers that served her Temple would.

“I will be with you momentarily,” she said shortly. The Matron smiled inwardly as the reaper shook his white skull in aggravation. At least she could make him suffer a little while she was at it. After all, a few more moments would not make much of a difference. Bethel raised her hands and reached out mentally feeling the spell through the web and flow of Power. Sorcery wasn’t real magic; it was just about energy and flow. Right now she had to find the place where The Grim had explicitly placed for the Mother Matron to redirect the power into the Underworld through the Gate House. Like everything else in Order, nothing was wasted, even energy and Chaos couldn’t change that. When the ward was canceled, the energy had to be reabsorbed somewhere. Her body would disintegrate under that much energy. It had to go back to its domain and creator. She found it and channeled the necessary energy to connect the two and the Grim-ward fell.

The effort of doing such drained her, both physically and mentally. Bethel had never been powerful in sorcery and even in the best of conditions that were a difficult spell for her. Isobelle would barely bat an eye at performing such a feat. She had always had a talent for the arcane. One day, Isobelle would make a fine Matron. Bethel turned to the skeletal reaper who had watched all of this with a small measure of satisfaction.

“Don’t get too happy Rascus,” She said angrily when she saw the reaper looking at her with his head cocked sideways. Reapers had body language that could easily be interpreted when a person associated with them long enough and right now, Rascals was thoroughly enjoying seeing her suffering. Maybe she had erred in casting first and then sending that bag of bones on his way.

“Never a word did leave my teeth, my love,” he said with a small chuckle. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Anyone that was unfortunate to hear a reaper laugh would get the same sensation. It was not so unlike a winters wind rattling ice-laden leaves

“Well don’t stand around. I bind you to the Grim, damn your reaper eyes, I need you to carry a message.” She took a step closer to the reaper’s empty eyes. She slowly released the binding spell to snap the reaper's will from him. Rascus would now have little choice but to go to the Grim. Her old husband would have done so anyways but the bind would ensure there would be little chance of rebellion.

“Well, it ought to be an interesting message, then love.” He said with amusement tinging his rasping, hollow voice.

“Oh, it will be very amusing here the next few days Rascus, for the Grim-Ward is down. As of now, the Temple may yet fall.” She turned to stare out across the bloodied streets of the city of Tharpe and the embattled men therein.