Gates of Ruin (Magelands Eternal Siege, #6) Christopher Mitchell (classic reads .txt) 📖

The wagon pulled up in front of a ramshackle old building. It was several storeys tall, but its façade was crumbling. Large groups of militia were stationed outside the front doors next to a few tall palm trees, and they approached the wagon to speak to its escorts. For a long time nothing seemed to happen, then eventually the cage was unlocked, and the seven prisoners were led out, or carried, in the case of the unconscious man. The woman and boy were taken to a separate entrance, and the men were led down a set of stairs to the basement level where they were pushed into a large room that already contained a few dozen prisoners. There was nowhere to sit except for the stone floor, and once the door was locked, no guards came to check on them. Corthie’s height and obvious strength drew the glances of many, and he heard a few muttered words about ‘Banner scum,’ but he avoided confrontation, and no one bothered him.

He spent several hours in the holding cell, and he guessed it was well into the afternoon before soldiers opened the door and gestured for him to get up. They had been coming in at irregular intervals, either taking prisoners away, or adding more into the room, without any discernible pattern that Corthie could see.

His hangover had gone by the time he was escorted up a set of stairs and into a small, cramped room, where six militiamen were waiting.

‘Sit,’ said an officer, gesturing to the room’s only chair.

Corthie walked over to the chair and sat without a word.

‘You’re due to see the magistrate in ten minutes,’ the officer said. ‘The charges against you include the unlawful destruction of property and assaulting a citizen of Kin Dai. If you plead guilty, you’ll receive a fifty day sentence in a labour camp, but if you plead not guilty, then you’ll get ten years. Understand?’

Corthie’s eyes tightened, and he wondered what his mother would make of Kin Dai’s legal system.

The officer took out a stylus and wax-board. ‘Name?’

‘Aman.’

‘Of?’

‘Nowhere.’

The officer frowned at him. ‘Place of abode?’

‘Homeless.’

‘Profession?’

‘None.’

‘Place of birth?’

‘I don’t remember.’

The officer nodded to one of the militiamen, and Corthie felt a stinging blow strike the back of his head. He grimaced in pain.

‘Half the militia here believe you’re a spy,’ the officer said, leaning in close to him. ‘A spy sent from Alea Tanton; a Banner soldier from Implacatus. Are you a spy?’

‘No, but would a spy say yes?’

‘What does Alea Tanton want? Why did they send you here?’

‘Would a spy trash a tavern and fall asleep in a gutter? I don’t know much about the Banners, but I do know their soldiers are professionals. Would they have sent me? I stick out here; my height, my accent. I don’t like the rulers of Alea Tanton much, but even I don’t think they’d be stupid enough to send someone like me.’

The club connected with the back of Corthie’s head again, knocking him off the chair and onto the cold, stone floor.

‘I’m going to recommend a long custodial sentence for you,’ said the officer, ‘just in case you’re lying, but also because I don’t like you.’ He nodded to the militiamen. ‘Take him to the magistrate.’

Corthie felt hands grip him under the shoulders, and he was dragged through a door and into a large, ceremonial chamber, with gilt-edged paintings on the walls and fine, stained glass windows. Several clerks were sitting at desks, while over a dozen militiamen were standing guard. Behind a high bench at the end of the room, an elderly man was sitting, peering down at Corthie. A clerk handed him a clutch of wax-boards, which he glanced at.

‘Aman of no fixed abode,’ he said, his voice deep, ‘how do you plead to the charges laid against you?’

Corthie glanced around, his head pounding.

‘Your lack of response will be taken as an admission of guilt,’ said the magistrate; ‘do you understand?’

‘I don’t remember trashing any tavern,’ said Corthie, ‘but if witnesses said I did it, then I guess I did. Sorry. I’ll try to behave better in future.’

The militia officer who had questioned him walked up to the magistrate and whispered in his ear.

‘Your guilty plea is acknowledged,’ said the magistrate, ‘and I hereby sentence you to twenty years in a labour camp. Next case.’

Corthie stared at the magistrate in disbelief, then two militiamen guided him through another door, their crossbows jabbing into his side. He was led down a flight of stairs into a different part of the basement and shoved into a small cell. The door slammed shut behind him and he was left alone, the back of his head still aching. There was a recess in a wall with a low stone bench, and he sat, settling down to wait.

Hours passed. The only light was coming from a barred window in the door that led into the lamp-lit passageway, and he had no way to tell what time of the day it was. He grew hungry, and longed for a few pints of water to relieve his dehydration. The door opened, and he was disappointed when another prisoner was pushed in, rather than it being his dinner.

The man tripped and fell to the floor as the door was closed and locked again, then he glanced up at Corthie, a look of fear on his face. He backed away, and crouched by the other wall.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Corthie; ‘I’m not going to eat you.’

The man burst into tears. ‘My life is over,’ he wailed. ‘Thirty years for insulting the rulers of Kin Dai, that’s what the magistrate gave me; thirty years!’

Corthie watched him for a moment. ‘I got twenty for trashing a tavern.’

‘A tavern?’ said the man. ‘That doesn’t sound right. You must have done something else.’

‘They accused me of being a spy.’

‘And are you?’

‘No.’

The man wiped his face. ‘That’s a pity. If you were, then you might be able to help me get out