The Iron Jury was as much a work of art as it was a courthouse - and really more of a colosseum than a place of justice. The hall was hundreds of feet in length, lit by sconces and standing torches reflecting their light from the impeccably-polished floor. Most of the chamber’s impressive girth was occupied by the seating, organised with one row on top of the other in a tiered stairway of blackness that led all the way up to the cavern’s ceiling.
Most of the so-called ‘jury’ - comprising thousands of Dwarves, mind you - had been assembled. Bright-eyed entrepreneurs with far too much opportunity waddled their way up and down the staircases flanking every row of seats, offering everything from refreshments (usually of an alcoholic persuasion) to fans for warding off the incredible heat.
Running down the centre of the chamber was an impressive walkway that seemed fit for a warrior’s entrance, concluding in an enclosed circle surrounding the defendant’s stand, which had more in common with a mangy animal’s cage than a judicial decoration. Flanking the stand were two desks carved from grainy stone, liable to slice someone’s wrists open with their expertly-cut corners. The grandiose podium belonging to the judge overlooked the scene like the throne of a despotic monarch, occupied by what appeared to be the oldest Dwarf in the room.
Marché could barely hear his own thoughts over the constant screaming of the crowd as he, Roland, and Baccharum made their way to the court. The sight of an Elf in the flesh must have inspired some kind of unbelievable disgust from the onlookers.
Marché leaned into Roland’s ear, “Let me do most of the talking. I’ll focus on trying to pin the letter on someone else. In the meantime, you should try to come up with a sob story to garner some support from the crowd.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He whispered back, “By the Briar’s thorns - I hope I know what I’m doing. One wrong step is all it will take to sink our chances of working this situation in our favour.”
Marché was confident - perhaps arrogantly so. It had something to do with the electricity in the air. It had been so long since he’d laid eyes on anyone who wasn’t at risk of being attacked by a thrall. He had forgotten what it felt like to be among flesh-and-blood citizens. He and Roland took their places at the stand while Baccharum broke off to enter the wrought-iron confines of the defendant’s cage, his lanky arms spreading out in front to grasp for anything to hold onto.
Not a minute later, another Dwarf made his way down the sunken walkway, greeted by cheers and hollers instead of abuse. He was a remarkable specimen of his kin, with a face free of crimson colouration and bloating, as if he’d never supped a drop of alcohol in his life. The vest straining against the size of his gut reminded Marché of Lüngen, only smaller and with much more hair on every inch of exposed skin.
“Our prosecutor.” Roland watched the Dwarf struggling not to break a sweat as he made his way to the court, “He seems popular.”
“He’ll be expecting a landslide verdict.” Marché replied, “I’ll use that to our advantage. Our case isn’t particularly strong, but with a few well-placed words, we could knock out the foundations of his argument.”
The letter sent by Drayya had already been placed on the prosecutor’s desk - seal thankfully included. Marché would have to focus on establishing his defence early if he planned to dig in his heels. Once the portly prosecutor waddled into place, the Judge - who, up to that exact moment may as well have been asleep - slammed his iron gavel against the desk, demanding silence from the bustling masses.
“I am Balsyra Wyrmstail Obelian III!” His voice was loud enough to split glass, “We shall now commence the 27,117th trial of the Iron Jury!”
“Has everyone in this country lost their minds?” Roland sighed, “I feel like I’m having a fever dream.”
“The defendant - one ‘Baccharum ‘Rummy’ Silas’ - is accused of high treason against the reign of Alberich, he whose gaze curdles milk, and whose warted feet crush the grapes of oppression!” The Judge continued, “Star-Eater Baccharum, how do you plead!?”
“Whatever passes for ‘innocent’ in this country.” The Elf replied, “Must I really stand in this horrible cage? These bars are digging into my feet.”
“Silence!” The gavel came down once more, “Spearheading the prosecution on this day shall be the honourable Oora Ironbelly! And supporting the defendant’s case shall be…”
A beat passed.
“Marché. Marché Hopper.” Marché finished, “-And Roland Ken.”
“-Marché Hopper and Roland Ken!” The Judge continued, “Would the prosecution kindly present a summary of the defendant’s charges!?”
“Naturally, Your Honour.” The Dwarf named Oola took a bow before clearing his throat, “The Star-Eater known as Baccharum Silas was recently inducted into the halls of parliament as a diplomat in the hopes that he would be able to settle relations between the Dwarven and Elven people. This afternoon, a letter delivered by Direcrown from the south was intercepted by a receptionist, containing correspondence from the necromancers of the south. Baccharum Silas was the intended recipient of this letter, exposing him as a double agent intent on dismantling the Dwarven Mountains from within.”
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
He scooped up the torn envelope and waved it in the air, “-This letter contains information regarding the Order of Necromancer’s strategic movements, including a plan to circle the border by using a seafaring vessel to skim the western shoreline!”
Gasps. Booing. Fainting. Some members of the so-called ‘jury’ were clearly a fan of Oola’s domineering attitude and pompous delivery.
“This evidence is irrefutably damning!” He claimed, “To have even entertained the possibility of a trial is offensive! Baccharum Silas should be killed where he stands for daring to conspire with the enemy!”
“Hm…” With arms folded, the Judge nodded along to the prosecutor’s words, “Indeed! I cannot in good faith believe that this accusation is in any way irrefutable! I am ready to deliver my verdict!”
“Now hold on a minute!” Marché slammed his hands on the iron desk - which was more painful than he would have liked, “Aren’t we allowed to present our own case!?”
“Marché Hopper!” The Judge screamed, “You must have an excellent reason for interrupting this judgement! I will not tolerate stalling in my courtroom!”
“Take a look at the seal on that envelope!” He pointed in Oola’s direction, “Isn’t it of Dwarven origin!? Why would a necromancer residing in the south be in possession of a Dwarven stamp!? It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Hm.” The Judge exhaled through his hairy nostrils, “Prosecution!?”
Oola wagged his finger and shook his head, “That’s simple enough to explain. The Order of Necromancers have conquered the Sovereign Cities. Acquiring a Dwarven stamp in order to quell suspicions regarding the letter’s origin would have been a trifle.”
“Don’t tell me this is all going to fall apart before it even begins…” Roland folded his arms.
“-And more to the point - stamp notwithstanding - the contents of this letter were obviously penned by the Order’s leader! Many are familiar with the dreaded Lich Sokalar, but few are studious enough to recall his first name: Ignas. Yet this letter mentions the forename in its second paragraph, and is even signed by the Lich himself!”
“Hm. Hm.” The Judge nodded his head along to the beat of Oola’s refutation, “This cannot be denied! Marché Hopper, do you have any objections to this-”
“The Lich is dead!”
Marché’s voice brought the chamber into perfect silence. His declaration was unbelievable. Ridiculous. A Lich? Dead? There was no such thing. But before Oola could open his mouth and say something to that effect, Marché pressed the attack.
“Sokalar was killed during an internal conflict with other necromancers!” He continued, “Undead were tearing one-another apart in the streets! Anyone who recently escaped from Tonberg - including myself and Roland - could testify separately and tell you the exact same thing!”
Whispers of both the dismissive and tantalised variety emerged from the crowd. Oola’s face scrunched up like a prune, causing bumps of fat to form along his forehead, “Nonsense! You’re trying to say one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world was killed by his own followers!? And just as he was about to take the city!?”
“There are plenty of refugees from here to the border.” Marché replied, “Ask any one of them - I guarantee they’ll say the same thing.”
“This is irrelevant!” He yelled, “We are discussing the matter of this Star-Eater’s evident guilt, not the particulars of unrelated conflicts!”
“I’m so glad you brought that up.” Marché smirked, “Tell me, Oola - when exactly was that letter of yours intercepted?”
“Hmph.” Straightening his posture, the prosecutor placed both hands on the collar of his vest, “This afternoon. Barely four hours ago.”
“-And yet the Lich has been dead ever since Tonberg fell.” He continued, “Why then, would a letter - supposedly intended to reach Baccharum - be signed by the same Lich? And with a Dwarven stamp, no less?”
“Subterfuge! Misinformation!” Oola held both hands out, “-And let’s not forget that the letter was delivered by Direcrown! That would mean the Star-Eater had already exchanged words with the south beforehand!”
“Is that really the conclusion you’re drawing from this?” Marché asked, “Doesn’t it seem more likely that, with all of these inconsistencies in place, the letter was sent by a Dwarf? And a Dwarf from this country, no less?”
“Wha-” Oola’s brow furrowed, “What are you trying to suggest, you troublesome outsider!?”
“It’s no secret that the tension between Dwarves and Elves remains thick enough to cut with a knife, even with the threat of necromancers on the horizon.” He began, “Suddenly welcoming an Elven diplomat into the country would naturally be met with some resistance. Would I be incorrect in stating that there are some Dwarves whose hatred of Elves is so pronounced that they would stoop to the act of impersonating a necromancer to frame one as a traitor?”
“Silence!” The Judge banged his gavel, earning silence from the chamber, “Speak in plain terms, Marché Hopper!”
“Baccharum Silas is being framed. That’s my hypothesis.” He replied, “There are too many inconsistencies in this piece of supposedly ‘damning’ evidence to neglect the possibility. To say nothing of the fact that sending correspondence right into the territory of your enemy is in and of itself a completely foolish idea.”
Not that it stopped Lieze from doing it anyway, is what he thought. But at least he could work that mistake into his defence - and the inclusion of a Dwarven stamp on the letter implied that its interception and subsequent controversy had been part of Lieze’s plan all along.
“Hm…” The Judge pondered Marché’s words carefully, “...I am forced to admit that this is a very real possibility! Prosecution!?”
“Your Honour, you can’t be taking this human’s words at face value!?” Oola frowned, “The Direcrown was seen approaching from the south! How could it have been sent from anywhere other than the Sovereign Cities!?”
“It was probably sent from the border!” Marché had the initiative now - he couldn’t afford to let it pass him by, “With the recent trouble caused by the surge of refugees, reports must be sent back here every day! It’s all the more likely that a Dwarf with a vendetta against Elves would use that chaos as an opportunity to send this incriminating forgery without being detected!”
“This is pure madness!” He declared, “You cannot prove any of this!”
“-But until it can be proved, justice cannot be served!” Marché pressed, “Baccharum cannot be incriminated until all shadows of doubt are erased from the possibility of his treachery!”