Chapter 10: Soldier & Scribe

Every day convinced Esharah more that Aven Arvanius was insane. Perhaps even more insane was the fact that she was considering his offer. Part of her still fully expected that the entire plot would collapse before she even agreed to it. yet Aven’s next confessional came and went, and the prisoner remained silent about his plans.

And so, after the confessional, Esharah stole a brief minute with Aven outside the watch of the Warden’s Eyes.

“To be clear,” Esharah said. “You want to kill Yvris, free the prisoners, and take over Hellfrost.”

“That’s right,” Aven said.

“And why,” Esharah asked, “in the hells would the Empire allow us to live after doing that.”

Aven paused, “...that part is a work in progress.”

Esharah sighed and pinched her nose. The Thorn pulsed in her back, but at the moment the pain was more just an annoyance in comparison to the headache Aven brought.

“Running is useless,” Aven continued. “Voidspawn to the north. Inhospitable mountains to the west. The Empire to the south and east. We run, we’re just escaped traitors, and we die. If we simply replace Yvris, we’re just new management. The mutiny of the 8th Legion ended with the leader of the mutiny becoming Governor of Osmont. There’s precedent.”

“Everyone involved in that mutiny was imperial soldiers,” Esharah said. “Not prisoners and slaves.”

Also, the captain of the 8th legion was a handsome, powerful, and charismatic hero who'd already made the bard's tales before the mutiny. Not Aven. Or whatever voidspawn had crawled back out of the pit wearing Aven's skin.

Aven nodded, “That’s why you need to get as much official support as possible.”

It was insane. It was suicidal. Unfortunately, so was running. And so was staying. And if Governor Skal Iraias was already unhappy with Yvris...

“This isn’t anywhere remotely enough to go on,” Esharah hissed, dragging Aven back out to signal the conversation was over. Too much time not appearing in the vision of the Eyes was almost as bad as doing something seditious within their sight.

Aven remained silent the rest of the way, but beneath the shroud of the void over his mind, Esharah could sense confidence. The arrogant, insane bastard assumed that she would eventually agree.

To Esharah’s horror, she realized he was right.

* * *

A new shipment of prisoners arrived a week later. A dozen of them, not quite enough to replace the numbers lost over the past month. The usual crop of foreign prisoners of conquest, debt slaves, and criminals. Only two figures of note.

One of the prisoners had badges on his jacket. One designated a unit: the 14th legion. Not one that Esharah knew anything about. The second was a badge of honor, indicating a soldier discharged with honors, wounded in service to the empire. A discharged veteran, a man who’d already completed his service to the Empire. Why was he here, at Hellfrost Keep?

The man’s emotions gave no sign of resentment, only firm resolution, as if being sent to a prison at the edge of the world was only another duty. His emotions were not shrouded, only rigidly controlled. A heart of stone.

He was not a tall man, shorter than Esharah even without her horns. Scars on his right arm. The left arm hung at his side, unmoving. About thirty perhaps, maybe a bit older, with a short beard that did little to disguise his stern face. With a heavy brow and clenched jaw, the man looked carved from stone (one carved by an apprentice sculptor rather than a master at that).

The far more surprising figure wasn’t a prisoner at all. A human woman short enough that she might have minari blood, five feet tall at the most, even in heavy boots fitting for walking in snow. A plain, unassuming face with a noticeable squint. Frizzy hair only partially contained by a tight bun. Simple clothes (a cloak, shawl, heavy skirt, long stockings fitting the cold climate), but lacking the patches and tears that someone of low station might wear.

“Warden...Esharah Nightblood, I presume?” the woman asked, leaning in and squinting deeper as she took in Esharah. Her mind held curiosity. Wariness. The excitement of tackling a difficult task, and the determination to see it through. Discomfort over...disorder? Maybe a general discomfort over everything.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Esharah kept up a smile while taking the woman’s hand in greeting.

“Publicar Aelia Etrani,” the woman replied, stiffly shaking the offered hand. “Governor Iraias has assigned me as Hellfrost’s new head scribe. I understand that Executor Yvris has encountered difficulties in management due to taking on the duties of county executor, regional magistrate, town mayor, head warden, and head priest. I will be taking on some of those duties to ensure that Hellfrost is able to function at Imperial standards.”

Esharah kept a smile up. Yvris was not going to be pleased. He’d taken a great deal of effort to consolidate the power of all those titles. Searching the woman’s emotions, Esharah saw no sign of duplicity. She apparently had no idea that she was being used as a tool to restrain Yvris.

“I look forward to working with you, Publicar Etrani,” Esharah smiled.

Esharah intended the formal title as a cautious greeting, keeping things formal. To her surprise, the use of the title actually sparked a tangible rush of joy and pride. The emotion didn’t show on the publicar’s face.

“Thank you,” the woman gave the tiniest possible quirk of her lips upward, as if most of her facial muscles didn’t quite know how to work a smile. “I look forward to working with you, Warden Esharah Nightblood.”

“Just...Esharah is fine,” Esharah kept the smile on her face. Her senses confirmed that the woman held no malice in the repeated use of Esharah’s clan name. No mockery. She genuinely believed she was being polite. She even believed that they were colleagues rather than Esharah being a prisoner - a fact that a pulse of agony from the Thorn reminded her at that instant.

“Thank you for the clarification,” the publicar said. Sincerely.

* * *

“How dare you,” Yvris snarled, face twisted in rage, “come into my city and claim such a position?”

Publicar Aelia Etrani seemed genuinely baffled by Yvris’s anger. Already Esharah could feel the poor woman’s spark of eagerness begin to fade into bemusement.

“I...am not attempting to claim anything,” Etrani said carefully. She gestured to the letter of introduction in Yvris’s hands. “I believe the letter from Governor Iraias was clear that it is by his appointment that I am being tasked with this position. Given that the duties of executor, magistrate, mayor, head warden, and head priest have proved too much-”

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

“You dare to come before me and insult my ability?” Yvris hissed, stepping forward to tower over Etrani.

She took a step back, “That...was not an insult. You are a single individual attempting to take on the duties of five positions. I am assigned to take on the duties that have gone neglected due to the limits of your time and energy. My appointment will ease your workload and increase efficiency. I believe Governor Iraias included my credentials in the letter of introduction. I have served effectively as a scribe of Northstar for seven years after apprenticing with the Northstar Shipping Company-”

“I do not care,” Yvris stepped forward again, looming over the publicar, “about your life story. I want you out of Hellfrost.”

Esharah felt a pulse of frustration from Etrani. A deep-seated frustration, long familiar, that Esharah felt whenever she was dealing with a particularly stupid guard or a stubborn prisoner.

“That...is not your decision,” Etrani said. Her voice wavered in uncertainty for an instant. The letter crumpled in Yvris’s hand, and the publicar’s eyes fixed on the action. She took a breath and stood straighter, holding ground against Yvris’ intimidation. “I am here at Governor Iraias’ appointment, Executor. I will be performing my duties as assigned, and I look forward to your cooperation.”

Yvris stared at the woman for a long moment, then his face relaxed slightly, “Very well. You will perform your duties. To start. You may observe and keep records of the new prisoners being...processed.”

Esharah felt the cruel thrill in Yvris’s mind. The prisoners would serve as demonstrations, implicit threats to what could happen to her if she stepped out of line. Publicar Etrani was about to learn how things worked at Hellfrost. With no knowledge of what was coming, Etrani actually pulsed excitement and relief to Esharah’s senses. From somewhere in her layered clothes, the publicar produced a book and a thick fountain pen, licking a finger and turning to an empty page. Ready to work.

Yvris gestured for the first prisoner to be brought forward, a canin beastkin with the broad-shouldered frame of one used to labor.

“You are brought for judgement!” Yvris spoke with even more booming theatricality than usual, gaze occasionally flickering over to Etrani in the corner, already scribbling in the book. “State your name and what sin has brought you to Hellfrost.”

The canin growled, “Iskir of the Ga’dasha. I’ve committed no sin except not killing more of you imperial bastards-”

Yvris gestured, and a guard clubbed the prisoner over the back, sending him to his knees. Esharah caught just the faintest pause in Etrani’s writing.

“Your sin is defiance against the empire,” Yvris said calmly, taking up the thin knife used to draw blood for marking in the Book of Souls. “Rebellion against the true order that shall rule all the world by right. To atone, you will labor for the rest of your life for the good of the Empire. You shall learn Discipline, and be cleansed in Piety.”

Yvris opened the Book of Souls, slashed the canin’s hand, and imprinted the bloody handprint in to the book. The prisoner screamed and writhed in the guards’ grip as the book’s wicked magic tore a piece of his soul away.

Esharah had witnessed this enough times that it barely stirred a flicker of disgust from her, though her senses were fully on the Publicar. In her emotions, Esharah found...curiosity. Confusion and distaste as well. But not horror.

Yvris spoke again, “Your soul now belongs to the Hellfrost. Defiance, laziness, rebellion...these will all be punished. Your life now belongs to the empire. Next.”

The procession continued, each prisoner undergoing the same fate, each soul torn away giving new pain to feed the Thorn as Esharah’s empathic sense drank in all the rage, the despair, the hatred of the new prisoners. Etrani’s dutiful scribbling continued all the while.

They came to the last prisoner, the veteran with a limp left arm, and he approached with a salute to the executor, right fist thumping his chest.

Yvris eyed him, “Rare to see an honored soldier come to our halls. State your name, and the sin for which you shall repay.”

“Legionary Ouron mils Markius, of the 14th Legion,” the veteran spoke clearly, emotion controlled. “I am sentenced for assault of an imperial officer.”

“A hefty crime,” Yvris said, voice sounding sorrowful, though Esharah felt his twisted soul wriggling in delight. Like an eel feasting on a delicate morsel of fish. “What could drive someone dutiful enough to be wounded for the empire’s sake to such a deed?”

“I became watchguard of the town of Viego after my discharge,” Ouron replied. “When a company of the 89th legion passed through, their captain assumed he was entitled to certain liberties within the town - its food, wine, and women.” Ouron paused, and Esharah felt a surge of anger break through the disciplined man’s mind, a tremor in the walls of stone like an earthquake. Perhaps only an aftershock to a rage that had passed long ago, “I corrected that assumption.”

“And struck a superior officer of the empire,” Yvris finished. “Making yourself an insubordinate traitor.” He gestured with the small knife, “Your hand, soldier.”

Ouron took his left wrist in his right hand and raised the arm up, prompting a questioning expression from Yvris.

“You can’t lift your arm?” Yvris asked.

“That’s the injury that resulted in my discharge, sir,” Ouron said, a pride defiant against echoes of shame resonating in his emotions. “Fought on the northeast Septentrion front. Took an ogre stormguard’s club.”

Yvris sneered, “And you were given honor for your weakness in falling to an enemy.”

“No, sir,” Ouron’s tone didn’t change. “I was given honor for smashing that stormguard’s plums with my good arm and saving the lives of my company.”

“Very valiant, I’m sure,” Yvris took the offered hand and slashed it open, pressing the bloody hand onto the book.

Ouron’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t scream. Instead, he fell into grim silence.

“Whatever merits you had, you threw them away in defying an officer of the Empire,” Yvris said. “You will repay the empire with your labor. If your arm isn’t good enough for hard labor, we’ll find a place for you killing voidspawn. You can show your Discipline and Piety to make up for your past failings.”

The task finished, the prisoners were assigned cells and taken away. Yvris gestured for Esharah to stay.

When the crowd of prisoners and guards had left, Etrani approached with a curious tilt to her head.

“Well,” Yvris’s smugness crept into his voice like a serpent ready to strike, “what did you think of our process, scribe?”

“Could you explain the rationale behind inflicting pain upon prisoners as part of the entry process?” Etrani asked. “Vitagon’s comparative analysis of punishment methods found that reserving pain for a clear and direct violation of rules was more effective in ensuring compliance and rehabilitation than a universal punishment for every inmate.”

Yvris stared, all arrogance momentarily stifled by bafflement, “Are you questioning my methods?”

“Oh, yes,” Etrani said. “I apologize if that was unclear.” The poor woman apparently had no idea that her question had any potential danger. “Specifically, I was wondering if your methods have been tested in their effectiveness against traditional practices in other imperial prisons.”

Yvris clenched his jaw. His anger was obvious enough that even someone with normal perceptions would have picked up on it, and he was too angry to think of some creative way to punish the scribe for impudence.

“I will not be questioned by a scribbler,” he spat, turning away. “Esharah, take this impudent meddler out of my sight. She is your responsibility now. Show her how things work here.” Without waiting for a reply, the executor stormed out.

Esharah and the publicar watched him leave. Then Etrani looked up to Esharah and tilted her head the other direction, dismay pulsing out, “What on earth did I do to earn such hostility?”

Pity surged in Esharah at the poor woman’s confusion. She gave the woman a pat on the shoulder - then immediately withdrew the gesture when she flinched away, the simple contact apparently causing nearly as much distress as all of Yvris’s domineering.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Esharah said, she gestured for Etrani to follow along. “Our Head Warden...” she glanced at one of the Warden’s Eyes as they passed beneath its light outside the chapel, then carefully chose her words, “dislikes his authority being challenged with his domain. Even if the questions are...well-intentioned.”

Etrani frowned as she followed Esharah. Already, the enthusiasm that Esharah had felt in her had grown cold, withering away. Yet beneath that enthusiasm was steel, a determination remaining to complete the assigned task. This woman was supposed to help run Hellfrost. Not necessarily to serve Yvris. And if it was clear that Yvris’s rule was inefficient...

There was an opportunity here. A genuine bit of hope for Aven's idiotic, mad plan. Esharah cursed fate for bringing such hope, even as she clung to that hope like a drowning man to a rock.

“I’ll help you get settled in,” Esharah said. “Perhaps you would like to take a look Hellfrost’s financial records?”

All at once the excitement within Etrani bloomed again, as bright as if Esharah had offered her the finest delicacies in all the empire. The publicar’s shoulders lifted slightly from her slumped posture, and she walked with a spring in her step. Even the frown turned slightly upwards into the tiniest smile, “Yes. Yes, I certainly would.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *