Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial (4 page)

“And then one day his spirit, his spunk
trumped the sheepishness. He asked to be my apprentice. Part-time
anyway.”

“Do say,” said Fyryx.

“So I taught him everything I know.
Bellowing, stoking, stirring, poking, fire walking now and then.
Molding, pounding, bending, rounding. Sharpening some things at the
end. And not to mention the founding fathers — smelting, melting,
and their cast of friends.

“Lad had a natural knack for it too, what we
wrought, the artifacts of life.” He caught Treygyn’s attention and
winked. “Simple implements. Tools like us. Just what is just plain
useful, handy. Everyday treasures — nothing fancy.”

He pulled a bunch of something from the
pocket of his quilted pants. “I’m talking things like these nine
inch nails that keep our Keep together and standing. Shoes for our
chevox. Or plowshares for farm work. But most of all the toiling
sticks that made my little sweatshop famous.”

From her perch the elderwoman nodded to
confirm his claim.

“A shame you couldn’t see the laddie wield
one,” Ferrous beamed with pride. “I’d like ya ta witness the
promise he has. Stick tricks he’s picked up so young…”

Bong! Gong! A second alarm. Double trouble.
Overtime.

“Better get down to brass tacks craftsman.”
Fyryx hit wits’ end with him.

Meanwhile the court clerk checked the sundial
on his wristwatch. “Sudden death.”

And woodsmith turned to character witness.
“Last few bullet points. I’ll be quick.”

Judge Hurx tapped his foot. “I doubt it.”

Turtle one, on the bottom, had an itch and
shifted weight to scratch it. Ferrous, tossed, lost his spikes but
spoke on.

“Bottom line — he’s fine (for a teenager),
with more skill than run-of-the-mill. ‘Cept maybe…”

“What?”

“When his friends come by.”

“Friends, eh? Clerk take note. I’m
listening…”

“Every afternoon like clockwork, orange sun
high in the sky, I spy a couple of them out back. Always scheming,
up to something. Mischief-making valley folk.”

He paused and squinted at the crowd. “In fact
I see the blokes right now.”

Fyryx craned his neck to look but they’d
already ducked from sight. “These clucks,” he cracked, “egged this
one on?”

“Scrambled his brains, the rotten yolksters.
Poached him from his smithing work. But I can’t vouch they hatched
this plot… It’s got to do with a chick, I think.”

“Chick? A girl?”

“The daughter of Yo. Though I don’t claim to
know much of women — I ply softer mettle than them. But he came to
me asking questions, advice. And even this smithy could read his
eyes.

“He was beside himself by fair day.”

“Be that as it may,” said Fyryx, “it’s short
of a motive. Not cause for effect. Oh yes, I know less of that fair
sex than even you do. Voodoo dolls to me. And yet my male intuition
senses a manufactured conspiracy…”

The brother Treasuror drew in closer.

“You swear you know no other catalyst?
Nothing to get off your chest?”

“No justice.” Ferrous looked flummoxed.
“Unless…”

“Yes?”

“Unless you count talking politics. You know
— chawin’ with folks, just chewin’ the fat. And tellin’ ‘em tales
of wonder and wanderlust from old Syland’s misty past.”

“Really! Now what could go wrong with that?!”
Fyryx was at his most sarcastic. “Myth maker. Master fabricator.
I’ve got a mind to arrest you right now.”

The partisan artisan tried to explain and buy
a little more time somehow.

“It’s largely harmless fun yer honor.
Homespun yarns of my daddy’s dad, Grandy. Thought the boy’d enjoy
them too. And he did. They mesmerized the kid.

“Grandy, he was an olde tyme journeyman, back
in the day when they crisscrossed the island. Traded rare ore in
all thirty-three sectors. Knew each one like the back of his hand.
And o the epic adventures he had…”

“Surely the kind long since forbidden —
pushing the limits, at our land’s end.” Fyryx fought the glaring
sun and eyed the witness with disdain. “Now I see clearly who’s
sparking dissent, casting aspersions on our regime. And forming a
rebel alliance no doubt of fresh young revolutionaries.

“Pikesmen! Put this forger in irons!”

Ferrous steeled himself, but then…

A three-alarm death knell shook the ground
and opened a crack for the quick-footed craftsman.

“Apocalypse now judge, gotta go. It’s a
towering inferno!”

Fyryx just turned away. He looked sick.
“Saved by hell’s bells… how ironic.”

The turtles unstacked.

Ferrous backed down taking Dustum in arm.

In a flash they were gone.

Fyryx mashed his fist and hand. He took some
frustration out on Ho-man.

“How many more clerk?”

“Um… six, seven, EIGHT.”

“Call them all. I just can’t wait.”

“Would be a world record.”

“You heard me. Just do it.”

The magistrate muttered then sputtered out
loud. “I vow that somebody’s going down.” He scoured the room,
“Time to lower the boom…” and stomped on a rat worm that happened
by.

Splat.

So Ho-man summoned the Syland Eight, nigh
witnesses who’d seal Treygyn’s fate. And their own, if Fyryx had
any say in it.

They were split up by kinship or teamed with
mates, each group claiming a separate base — a place on their
choice of the tortoises three. “Everyone must take a stand. Make it
snappy!”

Once all had a stance, the clerk took
attendance.

“Mr. and Mrs. Engyn Yin?”

Treygyn’s folks were on the smallest one.

“Yo,” answered Engyn.

“No. Yin’s on first.”

“Naturally, that’s what I said.”

“Surely not.”

“Who are you calling Shirley?!”

“Stop!”

Short-tempered judge Hurx called them out. He
barked like an umpire and they balked.

“Enough of this act. Who the heck’s on
second?”

Ho-man winced but chanced an answer.

“Yo mama, sir.”

“How dare you!”

“It’s true — Yeela Yo and daughter Xoxo.”

“Oh.” He looked them over.

Both were hooded and cloaked in the southerly
folkway. They bowed in the judge’s direction.

“Go on.”

“And last, to the grand stand…”

The great tortoise roared.

“I couldn’t have said it any better.” Ho-man
saluted the creature.

It snorted.

“According to Big Tort he’s got cohorts —
meaning the friends of Yo and Yin. Four forlorn teenagers born in
this wasteland… Raise your hand when I call your name…

“Layly Hayway and Vallon Vix.”

Two girls gave the slightest wave.

“Goolox Orx. Mister Billyum Slyme.”

Two guys thrust a fist — their gang sign.

Freebird flipped them the bird sign back.

“Thanks for reminding me lads!” chimed
Ho-man. “Almost forgot to give the oath…

“Witnesses, listen! Everyone swear?”

A few of them nodded.

“I guess we’re good.” He sidestepped toward
the forgotten stranger. “Now let the quips fall where they
may.”

Suddenly, the turtle fleet weighed anchor.
They drifted as if at sea. Three lost ships on a star-crossed
ocean. Islands of treasured castaways.

Rescue was far from the master’s mind.

“Bring me the heads of the leaver’s clan, the
pride of our mother and father land.”

The baby terrapin, still in motion, made for
Keep kommandant Hurx…

“Mach schnell!”

And served Treygyn’s parents on the half
shell.

Fyryx approached the stand extending his
hand. “Herr Yin! Your papers please!”

Engyn’s knees wobbled. His wife Hoona sobbed.
“We don’t want no trouble your honor,” he said and glared at his
prodigal son.

Treygyn cast his brown eyes down to the
ground. He could not bear the stare.

“Papers Herr Yin. I won’t ask again.”

Hoona frantically pawed through her worn old
sow’s ear purse. She shook like a leaf. To her relief, she found
the dog-eared green card she was looking for. “H-h-here d-d-dear…”
The paper was warped and stained with tears.

Her husband took the card and squeezed her
hand. Then Engyn surrendered it.

“We’re just simple oilers, commissar.
Instigators and traitors we ain’t.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” spat Fyryx.

The grand inquisitor scrutinized the tiny
document. He turned it over.

Then he studied the Yins themselves.

They were plain folk to be sure. Tattered. On
the dirty side. And short — descendants of Guur-syr or some other
sector of the south.

Their skin though was the envy of many, rich
and tanned as the land itself.

“Businessman are you?”

“Family farmer.”

“With two sons?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Where’s the other one?”

Engyn pointed an oily mitt at a boy on the
far side of the tent. The jittery kid was the spitting image of
Treygyn, but in miniature.

“Trogyn. Please sir — he’s eleven.”

“So?”

“Tro is innocent! Leave him out of it!”
Brother Trey wailed. He looked up and upset. “Mini me’s just a
twerp, your worship.”

Fyryx ripped the card to shreds.

“Everything seems to be in order here mein
Herr…”

Bits hit the floor.

“But you’ve still got some ‘splainin’ to
do.”

Engyn and Hoona knew what was coming.

“How is it that you Yins were ever permitted
to parent? Or licensed to spawn?”

Neither one dared to answer him.

“It’s time we had a law, a test, to weed the
bad seed out. You mutants…

“If I were master of this race…”

Engyn mustered the guts to interrupt and
mount a brief defense. A little resistance. His finest minute.

“Overlord, we’ve done our best with the
lads.”

“W-we have.”

“Not good enough by half.”

“But… we taught a work ethic.”

“S-s-sent Trey to school.”

“And let him apprentice with the woodsmith,
at the expense of his oilweeding chores.”

Fyryx shrugged his shoulders. “All that said
— what fool believes a leaver?

“Or a leaver’s family.”

Hoona fell to her knees. She pleaded.

“He’s a g-good boy. It’s true, it’s true. You
must hear the rest of the story s-sire. Ask Miss Xoxo. Oh, she’ll
tell you…”

Fyryx walked away unmoved. He went to the
center stand and stood.

He stared at the two folk in the hood.

“Yo, Xoxo! Show yourself. Decloak.”

“No!” said her guardian. “I’ll do the
talking.”

“Well then! Shields down, mother Yo.”

The figure yielded and threw back her cowl.
The shadowy shroud flew from her shoulders, billowing ghost-like to
the floor.

Everyone peered or pointed fingers.

“Innkeeper’s wife looks good these days!”

“Like a woman half her age.”

“What’s her secret?”

“It’s a trick!”

This wasn’t Yeela Yo.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t like surprises,” hissed Fyryx.
“Explain yourself girl. What’s the meaning of this?”

She hesitated for just an instant, adjusting
her eyes to the naked sun. They were pure, dark amber like
buckle-bee honey, more musky than sweet, less dawn than dusk. In
contrast her skin was salty caramel, hair spiced chocolate slicked
straight back. It fell in a vell-tail past the nape of her neck.
She smoothed it with her hand.

Maid of a land made of sugar and sand. A tiny
thing just turned eighteen.

She whispered something to the other then
spoke out loud for all to hear.

“I am the elder sister sir, first-born
daughter of Yeela and Hoxso, here to stand for the family Yo and
stand up for our treasured Xoxo.”

“And your name?” asked the clerk.

“Qoqo Yo.”

Fyryx seemed to know the clan.

“You’re from the tavern. The one on the
green.”

“Yes your honor, the old Keep Inn. Our folks
run it. We help out.”

“And yet who’d expect that, given your
habits, you’d get thee to a brewery. Especially this one,” he
gestured at Xoxo, “still dressed up for monking business.”

Worried her maiden hood left her exposed, she
tried to hide in the shadow of Qoqo. It didn’t work. He saw right
through her.

“Yes I can see you’re a novice miss.”

Sweet sixteen tasted sourness.

“But enough of this nunsense! You’re here to
bare witness. It’s time to drop the sister act.”

Young Yo, though, was taken aback and stuck
to her guns, her vow of silence.

Judge Hurx would hear none of it.

“Listen. We’re all done with choir practice.
Here comes your solo. Get ready to sing.”

Xoxo stepped out but kept quiet, peeking,
ducking him, waxing mute. She poked Qoqo in the back.

They had prepared for this. Qoqo spoke. “I
have taken my own vow sire — to be my homegirl’s guardian angel.
Role model, friend, her wings when she needs them, and her hero if
she falls. Blood-bound I swear not to falter, come hell or high
water, gloom or doom.

“Justice, I am the voice. Call your
tune.”

Fyryx, tongue-stung, stared her down then
broke into a surprising swoon. “Noble words good lady Yo… Loyalty…
that’s a trait I value…” He all but bowed. His voice nearly
cracked. He choked back a tear. “Accept my respect.”

That said though, he let out a “But” and a
bark. You know, your typical Fyryx.

“Did you really expect an exception, a pass
for this loved one, nun of the above? Let me assure you, lass, that
you’re mistaken. I have a host of questions…”

Just then an outer Guard rushed in.

“Pardon, m’lord!” He was winded.

“What is it?”

It was the fearsome northerner warrior
Goth-syr, and he carried something. “Special delivery, sir my
sir!”

The white-clad fighter goose-stepped across
the room in no time. Everyone watched. Even the Hurx boys had a
look-see, poking their heads out the fore chamber hatch.