The Raiselig Dossier: Whence Came Judgment Part 1
Fitting, that the thunder split the sky like a sword. Well did it suit the mood of the warlord that rain fell like arrows, piercing the heart with their chill. It was meet that the distant fogs billowed like acrid smoke towards the fortress gates.
Drozior, the Dark Lord, Slayer of the Seven Moons and bringer of death and blood to the lands of Illshir, had slain thousands of men and women. He slaughtered the peasantry with no hint of fear nor dissatisfaction. For all of Drozior’s reign, the great palisades of Doom Keep rose high over a land run wet with red blood. So they said it was this that gave the stones their dark red hue.
Drozior knew it was but the clay of the land which provided such ruddiness, but it was not for lack of trying.
From a pact long since fulfilled, Drozior had twisted and wrapped the threads of life of ten-thousand men around his fingers, and so his army was built from the undying corpses of those who once swore to serve him, confident that death would free them from their bond. The fools now stood in stillness and silence, their empty eye-sockets filled with the darkness of the grave, awaiting the command of their harsh and cruel master.
Of the living in Doom Keep, there numbered only five — and even the Dark Lord sometimes wondered if he numbered among those who lived. He knew a liquid pumped through his veins, but was it blood? Or was it no more than a current of cruelty?
Of the four others, one was the cook. She was deaf and almost blind, and so there was no one better suited to prepare his meals. With a well stocked larder from the surrounding fiefdoms, she asked no questions and made no effort to leave. For the past twenty years she had needed no shackles.
One of the living was the horse-master. A coward of a man, whose duties had become little more than sweeping the palace and emptying out the bedpans, ever since the last horse died from exhaustion. The Dark Lord needed conveyance, however, and so in the darkened pit of his dungeons did he work his terrible will with machines ancient and sparking, and though no living horse touched the land of Doom Keep, the stables remained full. Though they now needed no care, the horse-master himself refused to leave, for as horrible as his service was, a worse fate awaited him beyond the keep’s walls should the sheriffs and guards of the many kingdoms ever finally grasp his neck.
Now, knocking on the Dark Lord’s door, was the third living servant of Drozior. A scrawny lad no older than sixteen, stolen away from a loyal Baron as recompense for some foolish mistake. To be hand-servant to Drozior was not a fate worse than death, but for a lad of his age to be surrounded by the unmoving unbreathing servants of darkness would surely mark his soul for an eternity. Another year — maybe two — and he would never be able to return to the lands of the living. Drozior did not care. As long as his food was brought swiftly and the boy did not cry out in his sleep too loudly, he was unobtrusive enough to keep alive. Oddly helpful at times too, in strange and unforeseen ways.
The panicked rapping did not cease. Louder now, the boy was knocking, risking Drozior’s fury to attain some reaction.
It was not anger that boiled beneath the Drozior’s breastplate, but worry. Though he had planned for years for this moment, there was a cruel uncertainty that twisted about what was once his heart. Though there had been thousands who had followed his sword to their deaths, and the screams of millions seasoned his dreams, he felt now an uncertainty that stayed his hand, that urged him to keep the door closed.
But the rapping did not cease, nor would it, for the boy, as weak as he was, knew better than to anger what lay waiting for Drozior on the other side of that door.
Standing from a throne crafted from bone and iron, Drozior reached to grip the handles of Corpse-maker and Blood-letter, the cursed axe and befouled mace that were as renowned and feared as Drozior himself.
He would not use them — they remained seated in their stands — but feeling the thick grips beneath his gauntlets was comforting, somehow. “Enter,” he said at last, with a voice that could shake the faith of the most pious priests in all the land.
The giant wooden doors swung into his chamber. The boy staggered in, his twig-like limbs flailing about like whips. He bowed low, stammering wildly until at last the poor fool was able to gasp out his message.
It was an unnecessary effort. Behind the boy, beyond the doors, standing in the shadows, was the familiar silhouette. Releasing Blood-letter from his grip, Drozior lifted his fingers and gestured towards the figure, bidding them enter.
The boy swallowed loudly as the shape swept into the room. With a flourish, a small writ of paper was produced and waved before Drozior’s eyes before vanishing again into the shadows of the being’s coat.
“You are Drozior, the Dark Lord of Illshir?”
Drozior’s grip tightened on Corpse-maker. “You know who I am, Scrivener.”
Another flourish produced a bound scroll, and it was held up like a sword. “Under the orders of the ancient law and precedent established under the First Gathering and Harangument VII, you are hereby placed under audit.”
Drozior did not move, did not speak. Nor did the Scrivener.
Was it the same Scrivener as the time before? Man or woman, Drozior could not tell. Their body was not obviously square nor curved. There was no hair on their chin, nor on their head. Their eyes were deep like a woman’s, but fierce like a man’s. Their skin was neither soft nor hard, and black at pitch.
They were not human, whatever they were. Yes, this had to have been the Scrivener from so long ago, come again to strike him down with words of ink and papers legion.
Drozior waved his fingers once more, dismissing his servant. The boy did not need to see what was to come; his nightmares were rich and diverse enough already.
When the door shut behind them, the Scrivener finally lowered the scroll. “The audit will begin immediately, unless you wish to avail yourself of the standard hour of preparation. This may be, but is not restricted to, meditation, prayer, consultation with beings of legal or spiritual nature, or the placing of personal or business affairs in order.”
From the depths of a helmet washed yearly with the blood of the innocent, Drozior spoke. “You are…Raiselig, are you not?”
If the Scrivener was put off by such familiarity from the bringer of blood rain, they made no sign. “That is my name.”
“You were here last time, and perhaps the time before that? To hold me to account. To ‘audit’ me.”
“Yes,” Raiselig said. “As established in the Compact of Fienditry, to be eligible for the title of Dark Lord requires the fulfillment of the responsibilities outlined in section five.”
Drozior’s voice rumbled like the thunder outside. “I am the Dark Lord Drozior. I fear no man, beast, nor God. Dragons and kingdoms have bled to death at my feet. I rule over all Illshir with a fist of steel and an army of the undying. The greatest kingdoms of the world fear my name, and pray nightly that my gaze does not fall greedily on their verdant shores.”
“That’s not my department,” Raiselig said.
“I have no equal, nor do I recognize any as superior. Demons and devils bow to me. Armies fear me. You, you tiny thing, dare to subject me to your ‘audit?’ You are in the center of my power, little fly, and I shall crush you with no effort, and spread your bloody entrails across my door as a warning to all who dare think they have power over me.”
Raiselig waited patiently while Drozior spoke, and then said: “You have fifty-five minutes of your allotted time remaining.”
Drozior stood from his throne. Even sitting, the Dark Lord towered over lessor men and women. Standing, the Scrivener barely came up to his chest. With a single fist, he could crush the tiny thing’s skull.
But Drozior was no fool. He knew trees were felled by axes and metal forged with hammers. He knew a sword was useless in the kitchen, and a helmet served no starving soldier better than a loaf of bread. He knew that every foe required its own weapon, and if he slew the Scrivener where they stood, there would be consequences not easily weathered.
Instead, Drozior had a better weapon. He walked to the brass gong that hung on the far wall. Picking up a mallet made from the skull and spine of an ancient general who had managed to unite the armies of six kingdoms against him, Drozior struck the gong three times.
It was said the Gong of Death was only heard by those who were doomed to die at the Dark Lord’s hand. This wasn’t true, of course; it could be heard by anyone in earshot — though Drozior believed it was because there was not a single being alive who he was not fated to kill.
This was no call to war, however, but a call for his servant to return, stumbling into the room and stammering his apologies.
Drozior turned to Raiselig, and beneath his mighty helm, he smiled. “This time, I am ready for you, Scrivener.”
Raiselig’s eyebrow raised in curiosity, as the Dark Lord turned to his servant. “Bring her in.”
The boy swallowed, bowed deeply again, and ran off into the dark and winding depths of Doom Keep, to fetch the fourth and final living being within its walls.
In the years past, since the Dark Lord had first felt the impact of the Scrivener’s pen, he had toiled to thwart his nemesis’s power. He called on magics dark and profane, pulled every mighty demon from their hellholes, plucked down angels from their clouds, and demanded from each and every one the ancient and secret methods for defeating his hated foe.
In the end, it was as simple as asking, for this is the Code of the Scrivener; that their services are available to all, no matter how mean or meager.
So for years did the Dark Lord wait, keeping his prize in the depths of his keep, for when the time was right, there was no better weapon against a Scrivener than another of their order.
The doors opened once more, and Shosushai Tamabang strode swiftly into the room.
“Raiselig,” she gave a curtsy.
“Shosushai?” Raiselig blinked. “I had heard you were across the Wild Sea, ministering to an ancient spirit’s last will and testament.”
“I finished some time ago,” Shosushai shrugged, flipping her long thin veil up over her hair. “Their final act was to do little more than add a few minor spirits and an odd town to their beneficiaries. I was finished in a fortyear.”
“I see.” Raiselig turned back to the Dark Lord. “Is it your intention to contest the audit before it has even begun?”
“I will ask that you refrain from speaking to my client for the remainder of the audit,” Shosushai sniffed. “Any ex parte discussion may be grounds for contesting.”
“Hardly ex parte,” Raiselig answered. “You are standing in the room.”
“But not taking part in the discussion,” She raised a sharp finger. “Presence of council is not involvement in legal or official dissertation per se, as established in Obge v. Francin Mountain Range, paragraph V, section iii.”
Raiselig turned to look at the Dark Lord again. Deep in his helmet, hidden away from the light of the surrounding iron braziers, they could tell the tyrant was smiling.
“I see,” they said. “Then I shall direct my questions at you. This audit was commissioned after a discrepancy was discovered in the filing of receipts and contracts regarding the conquests and magical influences of your client over the past four years.”
“A longer time than usual,” Shosushai cocked her head. “May I ask why a yearly audit was not undertaken during each year if a discrepancy had arisen?
“You may certainly file a request for information,” Raiselig nodded. “I’m afraid I know no more than you on that subject. What I do know is there are major imbalances in the filed balance of your client.”
“I must protest,” Shosushai clasped her hands together. “I have reviewed the past filings of my client most thoroughly, and I cannot find any obvious fault. The numbers balance.”
“Ah yes,” Raiselig sniffed. “The numbers.”
Shosushai cocked her head in the other direction. “Do you find fault with them?” She asked.
“Fault. A strange word to use. No, I do not suppose I have found fault with the numbers, par se. I do, however, question their placement. After all, a number can go anywhere, if you name it properly. You can call it whatever you wish. Steal a purse and call it pillaging, swat a fly and call it murder; what you call it does not change what it is. Illshir needs a Dark Lord, and that means there must be a certain level of death, oppression, and dark magics. For example,” Raiselig pulled a paper from their pocket. “This reciept reports a full seventeen horses as casualties of the Battle at Gewthwydds Pass. A loss, requiring compensation. Yet here,” another page was produced, “I see an expenditure of magical energies used in the animation and binding of ten ‘dark steeds.’ Write-offs, in short, allowing for a meta-physical subsidy.”
“And this is a problem?”
“An enigma, at least, as to how ten horses could be written off both as losses and gains for a single battle.”
Drozior grit his blackened teeth. He had not suffered Shosushai’s presence in his castle, managing his accounts for years, just so she could fail him now.
“The rituals and contracts were all followed,” Shosushai said, her usually jovial tone now reserved. “These filings and receipts are accurate.”
“Are they? But the loss of the horses is contingent on the expense incurred in their replacement. When there is no such expense, and you are indeed paid to replace them, counting them as a loss is at the least suspect, yes?”
“I see no need for suspicion, unless you are accusing me of lying on official documentation.”
“I am impressed with these numbers in particular,” Raiselig pointed. “For they seem to indicate that seven years ago, the Dark Lord Drozior conquered a land that contained no peasants, but two hundred acres of farmland. One wonders who was doing all the farming.”
Off in the distance, an owl hooted in the night air.
“This is the problem with the law,” Raiselig continued. “There is letter and spirit, and they work at cross purposes — but there is not one without the other. You may call a number whatever you wish, but you cannot create a new world out of nothing.”
The Dark Lord stepped closer. “I can create and destroy as I wish!”
“Not without paying your taxes,” Raiselig shook their head. “I am afraid new filings will have to be made.”
“Under what law?” Shosushai demanded. “These filings were accepted and processed in accordance with all requirements and prerequisites. There is no cause to demand a re-filing.”
“There is if I, as auditor, have reason to believe a large amount of an individual’s assets are being hidden from proper reporting. Which I certainly do.”
“You dare —” the Dark Lord advanced before a finger brought him up short.
“My client,” Shosushai’s voice was firm, “wishes to apologize for any outburst that might suggest a lack of faith in your impartiality.”
“Accepted,” Raiselig didn’t even look up.
Shosushai lowered her hand. “But as hired Scrivener of my client, I must insist that the audit be conducted in my presence, as opposition counsel.”
“Very well,” Raiselig sighed. “It appears I have little recourse but to ask you if there are more pleasant environs in which you wish to conduct the audit.”
“I find this room to be perfectly charming,” Shosushai smiled. “The skulls add a particularly poignant reminder of ones own mortality, do they not?”
“I have seen too many,” Raiselig admitted. “I’m afraid they have become familiar. So too are they poor reminders of my mortality. I must collect the remainder of my files from my cabinet. Shall we reconvene here in half an hour, then?”
Shosushai smiled. “Your honorship, do you mean to say that you climbed all the way up those stairs without your complete portfolio of documentation? I hope this laxity isn’t the sign of an overenthusiastic Scrivener, intent on taking down my client without due process.”
Raiselig’s eyes narrowed. “I see no files in your arms, your honorship.”
“True.” Shosushai gave a curt nod. “My files are currently outside in the stables. I presume yours are also nearby? Allow me to walk with you, and we shall fetch our files together.”