The Raiselig Dossier: Punishment Part 1
The earth shook as Levret leaped to the side, barely evading the thick oak tree-trunk. Tucking into a roll, Levret swung their sword up and over, hoping against hope that the Ogre was clumsier than it looked.
His hope was for naught; rumbling laughter shook overhead. “Foolish boy of woman born, I’ll strip your skin like fleece is shorn!”
A gust of wind ruffled Levret’s long blonde hair as he turned to face his hated foe. “You’ve plagued the countryside for too long, Gob. Once you are slain, the valley villages will at last be able to live in peace!”
“No peace for thee, you foolish boy. I’ll crush you like a baby’s toy!” Gob lifted his tree, as big around as Levret’s whole body, and swung it like a scythe, the gnarled roots catching and scratching at Levret’s skin.
“No!” He shouted as a single root caught the hilt of his sword and pulled it free from his grasp, sending it spinning into the air. The sword, the fabled sword, caught the sunlight and flashed brightly in the sky. Levret watched as the glittering metal spun and twirled like a lark before sticking deep into the earth.
“Ha!” Gob’s victorious laugh was thick and rich, filled with weeks of rotting mutton and shards of bone. With a grunt, the massive ogre thrust the trunk forward, stabbing Levret in the chest and pinning him to a nearby stone.
Pain shot through Levret’s stomach as the roots held him tight. He struggled against the tree, to no avail. Gob was too powerful. Even with his father’s magic sword, the great Gob was stronger.
But perhaps he was not as clever?
Gob leaned against the tree-trunk for a moment, laughing at the stuck man in front of him. “You fought quite bravely, little man, but defeat great Gob? Why, no-one can!” Gripping the trunk with all of his might, the great Gob lifted the trunk in the air to bring it crashing down on the tiny man’s head, turning him into mush.
Gob paused.
Gob didn’t need to be particularly clever. Gob was so big, strong, and vicious that being clever was rarely necessary. Cleverness could only get you so far when ancient ogre-magics made you invincible and your muscles could uproot trees as big around as a horse.
But even the least clever of beasts could recognize that when trying to squash a human, there needed to be a human. There had been a human, right there, pinned to the rock by the gnarled roots of Gob’s club, and now…
Where did he go?
The trunk quivered in Gob’s grasp. Gob looked up.
“Ah-HA!” Gob reached up towards the roots where Levret was clinging for dear life. “Clever man to think so fast, but great Gob, me, will laugh the last!”
“You think so?” Levret struggled to pull his shirt free from the last root. “We’ll just see about that, mud-face!” With a mighty leap, Levret hurtled himself through the air, plucking the sword from the ground as he tumbled.
With a roar, Gob threw his lumbering girth, faster than any wolf could run, towards Levret as he stood up. There was a flash of steel, a sickening thud, a cry of pain.
Levret stared down at the hilt of the sword, the blade buried deep in Gob’s stomach.
Then, the thick leathery fingers closed around Levret’s torso. “Fool boy of mortal kin, no mundane sword can bring my end!”
“Wait!” Levret shouted as Gobs foul mouth opened to tear off his head. “It’s a magic sword!”
Gob’s mouth closed. “What?”
“It’s a magic sword,” Levret protested. “It was my father’s, and his father’s before his. It was forged from metal fallen from the sky, and inscribed with mystic runes from the ancient times. It’s magic.”
Gob thought for a moment, then flicked the sword handle where it stuck out from his gut. “No it isn’t,” he decided, feeling the blade wriggle.
“Yes it is! You should be dead!”
“But I’m not,” Gob said with annoying finality. “So it must not be magical. Stands to reason, eh?”
“Look,” Levret frowned, “If I couldn’t stab you, then fair enough, but I stabbed you with a magic sword, and the Witch of Towering Wood told me that if I stabbed you with that sword, you would die. So get a move on, okay?”
“The Witch of Towering Wood told you that?” Gob looked again at the sword. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Levret nodded. “Cackled and everything. Are you saying she was wrong?”
Gob flicked the sword handle again. He wasn’t particularly clever, but he knew enough about the Witch of Towering Wood to not say anything he might regret later. “No, of course not…but…”
“No buts about it. Die already!”
“Look, I’m not saying she was wrong, exactly,” Gob said after a moment of thought, “but witches have been wrong before. In a general sort of way. Or maybe she was being, you know, whatzit…when you say a flower but you’re really talking about a campfire?”
“Metaphorical?”
“That’s it,” Gob snapped his fingers with the sound of crunching bones. “Maybe she meant I’d ‘die’ in a metal-focal kinda way.”
“Okay,” Levret huffed. “Well, are you dying in a metaphorical way then?”
The great Gob looked up at the sky, then down at his feet. He scratched his head. “Dunno. What’s that feel like?”
“Okay, listen,” Levret pulled himself away from Gob’s grasp. “My great-grandfather forged that sword himself from magical sky-metal. It took him seven days and seven nights, and a whole forest of trees for fueling his forge. When he was finished, he cut through seven oak-trees in a single stroke. My grandfather defeated the Bandits of Blacksmoke Pass with that sword. My father prayed over it every day, and lit sage and redwort incense under its blade. It’s magical, and I stabbed you with it, so that means you need to die!”
“Okay, well, where’d you get it?”
“Huh?” Levret scratched his head. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, where did you get it from? Like, a magical lake? Under a stone no man could lift but the chosen wielder, sorta thing?”
“It was hanging over the mantle,” Levret crossed his arms. “So what? Still magical.”
“Is it?” the Ogre sniffed. “Doesn’t seem very magical, just hanging there. And sage and redwort? What’s that?”
“Mystic herbs. I helped pick them when I was young.”
“Ah,” Gob shook his head. “Now even I know you don’t just pick up magic herbs on the ground. Witches and Wizards got them, not farmers. I don’t know what your father was doing, but it weren’t magic.”
“Of course it was!” Levret stamped his foot. “Look, I spent two whole months preparing for this fight. I was supposed to be the heroic boy who saved the country-side from the evil ogre, and now you’re ruining it!”
“Not my fault if you can’t follow the rules,” Gob snorted.
“I did! I am! You’re the one who’s cheating!” Levret grit his teeth. “If you don’t die right now, I’ll…um…well, you’ll regret it!”
Gob opened his mouth, then closed it again. A moment of thought more, and the ogre said: “Okay, how about we get a Scrivener to arbitrate this? I certainly don’t think I should be dead, but if a Scrivener says so, well…” he shrugged.
“I don’t see why I should agree to a Scrivener when I did everything right, but if that’s what it takes to prove that you should be dead, then fine. I agree.” Levret extended his hand.
Gob extended a finger, and they shook on it.
Almost immediately, the sound of someone walking through the nearby underbrush met their ears. Seconds later, a Scrivener in a dark suit stepped into view.
“Ah, what luck,” Gob rumbled. “Scrivener, we require your service. This boy thinks he can skip around my ogre magic without going through all the proper steps. See this?” He pointed to the handle sticking out of his gut. “He stuck this in me, thinking it would kill me, when it’s not even properly magic.”
“It is,” Levret shouted. “Look, this dumb oaf of an Ogre thinks that just because he’s big and strong he doesn’t have to die when he’s killed. That sword is magic, has been for generations, and him complaining isn’t going to make it less magical.”
The Scrivener looked from one to the other, as each shouted their complains and grievances at each other. Finally, they heaved a great sigh and the yellowwood cabinet on their back hit the ground with a loud sickening thud.
The two complainants fell silent.
Leveret couldn’t tell if the Scrivener was a man or a woman, their pitch black skin shimmered so cleanly over their thin elegant frame. Their eyes were piercing, cold, and their lips firm and lethal. They moved like an animal, steady and firm.
Gob was not privy to the subtle differences between human women and men. He didn’t care much about frames or eyes or skin-color. He was an Ogre, which meant he could smell power. The Scrivener didn’t smell of anything.
The two waited patiently while the Scrivener took out pen and paper, preparing to adjudicate. “Let me see that sword,” they said.
Gob grunted as he pulled the sword from his stomach and handed it over. The Scrivener snatched it from his grasp, staring at the long thin blade, ignoring the putrid mess that still hung from its edges.
“It’s been in my family for generations,” Levret said. “My great-grandfather —”
“Keep quiet,” the Scrivener snapped before tossing the sword back to Levret. “I’m ready to give my verdict.”
“What?” Levret gaped. “You’re not going to hear our cases?”
“I’ve already heard them,” the Scrivener opened the cabinet again, replacing the paper and pulling out a different form. “You want to kill the Ogre, the Ogre doesn’t want to die.”
“Well, that’s part of it, sure,” Gob scratched his face with a finger as thick as the Scrivener’s leg, “but there’s more to it than that.”
“Right,” Levret stammered. “It’s not just that I want to kill Gob, it’s that I did kill him. Just because he says my sword isn’t magic when it is.”
“Is it?” The Scrivener looked up with a snap. “How do you know?”
Levret opened his mouth, and paused. “I know it is. I mean, my father told me it’s magical.”
“He could have been lying,” the Scrivener pointed out. “Or the magic could have faded over the years. You say your father lit sage and redwort along the blade; that could be construed as a spiritual or religious ritual. I have a form right here that could clarify the sword as being a divine weapon, rather than magical.”
“Does it make a difference?” Gob asked.
“Don’t you know?” the Scrivener whirled to the Ogre. “If a divine weapon stabbed you through the heart, would you die? What if it was a magical sword that was enchanted to be harmless? What if the magic was restrained to only work on alternate days of the week, would it still be magic on the other days? Would you die then?”
“I don’t know,” Gob admitted.
“No, you don’t know,” the Scrivener muttered, scribbling on their paper. “Thousands of loopholes, conditions, precedents, and corollaries, and you don’t know a single one.”
Well," Gob rumbled, “I suppose if I’d died, I’d know.”
“But you aren’t dead now, are you?” The Scrivener’s smile was grim and vicious. “And still you cried out for a Scrivener to come and solve your squabble. You!” They pointed at Levret. “Just wanting to be a hero doesn’t make you one. Grabbing your father’s sword on the hope that it’s magical doesn’t make you special. You may feel entitled to a victory because your great-grandfather once put in the effort, but if you keep grasping short-sighted and easy solutions, you’ll soon find yourself with far bigger problems than an ogre’s teeth.”
“As for you,” the Scrivener snapped at Gob, “I know your type. You think that just because other people care about the rules, you can get your way as long as you wear everyone out demanding they prove it. You take what you want, and lie back in the smug satisfied certainty that the only thing that really matters is your laws, forgetting that the rest of the world has its own plans, and when you fall you’re going to fall hard.”
“Um…” Levret glanced at his opposition. “Sorry, is…is this the verdict, or —”
“Excuses,” the Scrivener snarled as they scribbled on the form in their hands. “You both already are so certain of yourselves. You covered all the bases, didn’t you? All the bases that mattered. So if there’s something you didn’t know, well, it must not have been important or else why would you have ignored it? No, they’re just pieces for other people to pick up. Messes are for mothers to wipe clean, and you sure as hell won’t bother helping because if it was important then it would do something for you, wouldn’t it? All these loopholes and details?”
“Are you alright?” Gob asked.
“Well I hope you like where it’s landed you,” the Scrivener signed the bottom of the form. “Because there. It’s done. I’m sure you wished you could have made your case better, because if I had just understood you then I’d certainly see things your way, right? Well, no! There is only one right answer, and I just happen to know what it is. There.” With a flourish, the Scrivener sealed the bottom of the form, and threw open the cabinet again. Shoving the form into its proper place, they closed the cabinet doors with a bang, and locked them with the silver key. “Done. That’s that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do in this world. Important work that will make a real difference to important and unimportant people alike. And if you happen to be dissatisfied with my verdict, I’m sure you can appeal to a higher court, if you can find one. But you won’t, will you, because you’re still alive, and you sure as hell don’t want to complain unless my decision is overturned and you end up dead as a result. Fine little loophole in the rules, isn’t it? I can make all the mistakes I want if no one ever calls me on them!”
And with that, the Scrivener hoisted their cabinet back onto their shoulders, and continued walking down the path.
It took the better part of a week for Raiselig to reach the small cabin to the east of Highpeak. It sat high above the snow-line on the western edge of the second tallest mountain along the range, and the snow and wind had frozen it to the mountainside.
Raiselig didn’t notice the cold. They had other things on their mind.
The trek was not easy, even ignoring the cold. The icy road had long since been forsaken by both human and beast. Only the Scriveners knew of the cabin’s location, and they used it only as a rest-stop, a place to warm up and rest themselves before returning to their endless wandering.
Raiselig’s muscles ached as they climbed the steep road, until at last they reached the icy door. Fumbling at the latch, the metal scraped and creaked as they pushed hard on the frozen wood. The inside of the cabin was dark as night, the pure white snow and glistening ice providing little in the way of illumination from the outside.
Raiselig stomped into the cabin, shutting the door behind them with a tinkling clatter. A moment passed where all the Scrivener could hear was the faint winds blowing down the chimney, and the creaking of the wood as it strained against the weather.
The sound of their cabinet hitting the floor was a welcome shock to the stillness. Snow fell off the yellowwood in sheets as Raiselig brushed at it with their handkerchief. When the cabinet was clean, only then did Raiselig take off their bowler hat and shudder like a dog, scattering their own collection of snow to the frozen floor.
There was a fireplace in the corner, but Raiselig did not light it. They lit only the small oil-lantern, shattering the darkness into shards of shadow with its pale yellow light.
For a moment they stared. Small, dark, cold.
There were huts like this one dotted all over the world. It was a private place, a place known only to Scriveners. Each place was carefully chosen and curated, designed to maintain a haven from the net of contract law that spread across the land like storm-clouds.
There was no law here. No magic. Nothing but a protective bubble of silence and stillness. The closest living thing for miles around was a lonely bird huddled tightly in the crook of a pine.
Reaching out, Raiselig slipped their silver key into the cabinet’s lock. Working the metal back and forth a few times, they gently opened the cabinet and inspected the contents. The papers were safe, the ink was thawed. Frost had rimmed the cabinet doors, but nothing had penetrated deeper.
Raiselig flipped through several of the filed papers. They had a good deal of time before the worst of the storm passed, and a great deal of work to do before moving on. Selecting a sheaf of forms and contracts from the piles, Raiselig shut the doors again, and moved to the tiny table.
They could have done the work anywhere. They had done it before in a private room in the Horned Serpent. But somehow, this time, they had wanted — needed to get away.
The stool groaned as Raiselig sat, threatening to shatter like glass. They paid it no heed, and pulled a pen from their pocket.
Some time later, there was a knock on the door.
Raiselig’s pen paused in its dance across the page. For the briefest moment, Raiselig considered not answering, but the responsibilities of the Scrivener were clear, and so they placed the pen down on the table and opened the door.
On the other side stood a figure dressed from head to toe in thick leather and fur. Even so dressed, they shivered and shook as they pushed into the cabin, rubbing their covered hands and dancing up and down to keep their blood warm and flowing. Raiselig swallowed hard at the thought.
“Thank you,” the figure said, teeth chattering. “It’s cold as anything, out there.”
Raiselig watched as the man, for it was a man, dance their warming dance, hopping back and forth like a grain on a hot stove. The man moved to the fireplace and began hauling wooden logs into its stony interior.
Grunting as he fed the hearth, the man paid Raiselig no mind as they returned to their chair, drawing their pen back and forth across the page once more.
The groaning seemed to go on for ages before the man stopped at last and a hissing scratch lit the air. Seconds later, a flickering red crept along at the edges of Raiselig’s eyes.
Raiselig gave no attention to the man. They refused.
Finally, the man spoke. “What’s going on, Raisel?”
“That is not my name.”
“Isn’t it? I’ve heard the bar-wench at the Horned Serpent call you Raisel all the time.”
“She has the right.”
“Does she? Very well; what’s happening to you, Raiselig?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean. What was that with the boy and the Ogre?”
“Did I do anything wrong?”
The man hissed through his teeth. “Now there’s a loaded question. You didn’t break any laws, but you knew that already; you were very careful not to. Did you overstep your boundaries? Maybe, but that would take adjudication to decide, and I doubt there’s anyone who wants to go through all that for some piddling little ‘hero v. ogre’ case. Too many of those at any rate, these days.”
The man placed a finger to his lips. “No, I’d say you were very careful.”
Raiselig slowly put their willow-wick pen down. “Is this an inquiry?
“Do you want it to be?”
“I’m not in the mood for games, Quisitor.”
“Okay, Scrivener. No, this is not an inquiry. You are not getting audited, there will be no review. This is…Honestly, this is a warning.”
“A warning.”
“Well, what did you think would happen?” the man let loose a barking laugh. “Raiselig, for the past century, you’ve been one of the most exemplary Scriveners I’ve ever seen. I can’t count how many rituals you’ve administered, contracts you’ve amended…you are one of the model Scriveners. People look up to you.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“And now, the past few months…the fact that there has been talk at all is worrying.”
Raiselig looked up. “Talk?”
The man folded his arms. “You’re getting sloppy. When someone like you gets sloppy, that’s reason enough to worry. We don’t want a spotless record to get marred.”
“My record isn’t spotless.”
“Oh, you have certainly made mistakes, had your actions brought up for review before. That’s not what I mean. I mean your record of accountability. Your record of adherence. your record of authoritative recognition.” the Quisitor circled his hand in an expository motion. “You buy in. You play the game. Even when there are better or easier ways to get what you want. Now…what some people are saying —”
“Are they talking about Widow Salix?”
The Quisitor paused. “I’m sorry?”
“These words of worry, of concern, are these gossipers equally worried about the Widow Salix? Do they speak of her in the same manor as me?”
“No, of course they don’t. She’s always been troublesome.”
“Then the problem,” Raiselig’s voice grew quiet, “the problem isn’t what I’ve done, it’s that I’m changing. Now, suddenly, I’m unpredictable. Untamed and complex. The golden pupil has lost their way, and needs a guiding hand back in line, before they slide back to their primitive ways, is that it?”
“Have you felt like sliding back?”
Raiselig stood up, and began to pace.
After a moment, the man spoke again. “Please, Raiselig, what’s the matter?”
“That,” Raiselig pointed with a long thin finger. “That is the matter. That something must be wrong.”
“Do you have another explanation?” The Quisitor leaned back, clasping gloved hands behind its hooded head. “Scriveners swear an oath to the Word and the Frame, yes? An oath that is as inviolate as breathing.” The man paused before gesturing aimlessly. “Well…you know what I mean. When a Scrivener is no longer dependable, it’s cause for concern. It is wrong.”
Raiselig stopped pacing. “Am I no longer dependable?” It hurt. It shouldn’t have hurt. Raiselig didn’t want it to hurt. It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. There, a million miles from nowhere, amid the trees and the snows and the mountain peaks, it hurt.
The Quisitor sighed. “Like I said, this is only a warning. If things keep going they way they have been, well…You know as well as I do, there is no better way for everything we have to fall apart then for someone like you to start questioning it all.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Do? Hm. If I had the power, I would make you be more…reflective, I suppose. Be more skeptical of your own actions. The world has become what it is, after all. If you want to strike out, you can; but you know that one person — even you — cannot make a difference like that. You would be a drop on a stone.”
“I have no desire to strike out.”
“Good. That’s good. While I was on my way here, I got a request for a Scrivener to preside over the coronation of a new Count. His mother has just died, apparently, and wishes for a more ‘official’ transition of power to make sure everything runs smoothly. You do agree that a County needs a properly invested Count to be a County in the first place, yes?”
Raiselig took a deep breath. “I will go.”
“I need an answer, Raiselig. Do you want it all to work?”
Raiselig thought for a moment, considering the ramifications of their answers. They could lie, though there would be repercussions. They could tell the truth, and the repercussions might be worse. They could not answer…but no, they couldn’t, could they?
“I want everyone to have their place,” they said at last, “And to find fulfillment in it.”
“Good,” the Quisitor smiled. “Even better.”