CHAPTER THREE

A torrent of water roused Rahne from his slumber. The shade of the so-called “Tree of Justice” protected him from the heat of the sun, but exhaustion had taken over several hours before, and he’d lapsed into a fitful sleep.

Whipping his head back and forth to clear several strands of dark hair from his eyes, he squinted up to see Sekker leering at him with no small amount of disgust.

Sekker was by far the fattest man Rahne had ever seen. He was callous, officious, and puffed up on his own sense of self-purpose. His favorite boast was that he was a distant cousin to King Morix—a very distant cousin, Rahne reasoned, to be given the title of High Magistrate of an insignificant little coastal town like Larth, where the air perpetually smelled of fish and nothing of consequence ever happened.

“Rise and shine, thief.” An ugly smile formed between his jowls.

Every one of Rahne’s muscles ached in protest as he attempted to sit up straight against the tree he’d been manacled to for the last twenty-four hours. Everyone in Larth knew this tree, the tallest in the area. Located in the middle of a large, open meadow a half-mile east of town, it was a common punishment site, where victims of the magistrate’s whims were chained, sometimes for days, without food, only yards away from the nearest of several wells nearly full to the brim with fresh water.

With great effort, Rahne dug his boots into the soft grass and pushed himself upright. Now fully awake, he stared up at the magistrate. “Like I told you yesterday during that farce you called a trial, I’m not a thief. That boat belongs to me.”

“Not anymore, it doesn’t,” Sekker retorted, throwing the empty bucket on the ground next to the nearby well. “Your boat, or should I say your father’s boat, became the property of the crown upon his death.”

Rahne flexed, but his arms had very little range of movement, spread wide as they were against the bark of the tree. “That’s a lie! My grandfather built that ship with his own two hands! He passed it down to my father, and as his only living relative, it goes to me! That’s what the law says!”

Sekker chortled, his ample belly quivering. “We went over this yesterday. Of course, you were only half-conscious during most of your trial, so I guess that explains your lapse in memory.”

Rahne remembered being struck on the head by one of the local constables on the way into Sekker’s office, his punishment for a particularly choice insult about the man’s questionable lineage. “What are you talking about?”

Sekker leaned forward, speaking to him as if to a naughty child. “The law states that property can only be transferred to a relative if said relative has reached his nineteenth year. By your own admission, you are only eighteen.”

“I’ll be nineteen in ten days.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re eighteen now.”

 “Fine,” Rahne said through clenched teeth. “Let me go, and in ten days I’ll take ownership of my boat.”

“Doesn’t work that way, boy,” Sekker said, using the toe of his boot to kick Rahne’s heels; not enough to hurt, just enough to annoy. “Your father died with unpaid debts, as you may or may not know. Those debts have come due now that he’s journeyed to the Great Veil.”

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“What debts?” Rahne asked. “He paid the taxes on the fish he caught for years. It was too much, but he paid it anyway. We barely had enough to get by.”

“Ah, but your father docked his boat at a public pier. I just recently enacted a law regarding a harbor tax that all boatmen must pay, and it seems he neglected to pay the harbor master this additional duty since the law’s enactment.”

An increasing sense of helplessness flashed through Rahne. “How much did he owe? At least let me try to pay it back!”

“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. Your father’s boat was by far the most valuable thing he owned, and that’s already been sold. It only covered about half his debts.”

Rahne felt his stomach clench. “You slimy bastard.”

Sekker flashed an evil grin. “You’re more than welcome to travel to Talcris and complain to the King. Oh, wait, you can’t.” He laughed again.

Fourteen days before, a Barjan captain named Elzor and his army, the six-hundred-strong Elzorath, laid siege to the capital city of Agrus. It took several days for news to filter down the coast to Larth, the southernmost city in the region. Stories had been told at the local taverns ever since about how Elzor’s twin sister Elzaria singlehandedly decimated the Agrusian army. She was a Wielder, the first female in the history of Elystra to wield the power of Arantha.

Rahne could hardly believe his ears when he heard the story about how lightning shot forth from Elzaria’s hands, killing or wounding more than two-thirds of Agrus’s soldiers, and Elzor’s men had scored an easy victory after that. King Morix, the entire royal family, and most of the nobles were dead within days. Everyone expected Elzor to send someone to Larth demanding some token of fealty or tribute, but there had been none.

“Larth’s small size puts it beneath the notice of that pernicious whelp who now dares call himself Lord of Agrus. And as the only citizen of Larth with royal blood, that means I can adjust the law how I see fit. Which puts you ... well, right where you are now.” He chuckled. “Tomorrow, you will be released into the custody of a local fishmonger, in whose employ you will remain until the rest of your family’s debts have been paid.”

“You mean Joor?”

“Ah, you know him?”

“We’ve met,” Rahne said with a scowl.

“Good. I wouldn’t count on getting much downtime during your stint at his shop. Or food. And I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.” Sekker’s bushy eyebrows raised, and his enormous girth seemed to expand even further with his perceived victory.

A faint sound from down the road leading north and slightly inland caught Rahne’s attention. Sekker hadn’t yet heard it, as he was in the middle of another fit of cackling.

Several men on merychs appeared through a dense copse of trees. As he watched, an entire procession appeared, dozens becoming hundreds, headed right for where he was chained. He realized with a start that the one leading this army could only be Elzor.

After a few moments, Sekker heard the clamor as well and turned to see the heavily-armed mass approaching. A look of horror appeared on his face, and he started to waddle away toward the road to his merych-drawn cart.

Two soldiers in high-quality armor broke away from the rest, spurring their merychs into a full gallop and easily closing the distance between the procession and Sekker. The magistrate had just managed to clamber into the driver’s seat of his cart when he found himself facing two large men with swords pointed right at him.

“Stand down,” one of them growled. “Now.”

Though he was twenty yards away, Rahne could see Sekker’s face had gone deep crimson. The setting sun glinted off the sweat pouring from the man’s plump face. Raising his hands in surrender, he gingerly climbed off the cart.

For almost a minute, no one moved a muscle, like figures in a tableau. Finally, the rest of the procession caught up, and Rahne caught his first good look at the man who had invaded his homeland as he alit from his merych, a powerful-looking black steed with an equally impressive mane. The man was tall, dark-haired and dark-bearded. His eyes were as cold as morning frost, and an air of ruthless authority emanated from him.

Right next to him was a raven-haired beauty clad in a black dress cinched at the waist by a leather belt. This had to be Elzaria, and if he thought Elzor’s eyes were icy, they were blazing suns compared to Elzaria’s. He’d seen fish with warmer eyes.

Rahne wondered if he’d seen his last sunrise.