Beyond the Spire of Navarene (Dead Men are Dying Book 1) by M. Warren Askins

Author:M. Warren Askins [Askins, M. Warren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: grimdark, adventure, fantasy, dark fantasy
ISBN: 9781734120004
Published: 2019-10-31T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

When the first cornerstone was hewn and delivered from the Vassal Mountains, he was there.

He was there when the trench was dug and that poor simpleton lost his grip and fell, his bones crushed to powder well before suffocating. He was there when the shops and villages sprung up all around the immense structure, ushering in more and more people from the surrounding countryside, flooding the streets with flesh and bone. He was there when the love of his life was taken. Stolen from him. Stripped from him. He was there. And when the dark curtain of her life fell, he was there to pass judgment. He was and is; the judge.

With hands steepled over his nose, Amyr leaned forward in his throne, attempting to focus. His mind was prone to wandering as of late.

That girl reminded me…It was four, maybe five years ago. The seasons seem to run together in his memory.

Perhaps it was three years? Shaking his head, he recalled the first instance he had seen her. She was standing on the front stoop of a printmaker’s shop, bidding farewell, and when she turned…his entourage of knights carving through the crowd reigned in their horses when he pulled to a stop, allowing the girl to cross. Only for a flicker did their eyes meet, but that instant echoed endlessly in his mind.

“Arbiter,” a hollow sounding voice said. “Lord Amyr.” The sentinel to his left tapped the throne, snapping Amyr’s attention back to the present.

How long was I…

A plump young couple adorned in fineries was still standing behind the podium with blank expressions etched on their matching pallid complexions.

Beyond the podium lay the bulk of the cathedral’s main hall, brimming well over capacity. A mass of people waited by the heavy doors, some of the crowd spilling out into the street. The basilica was relatively empty on the off days, but on judgment days, every seat was occupied. Judgment was open to all, allowing those who felt wronged or harmed to come forward and make accusations. But as of late, the majority of folk begged for a blessing to get pregnant and raise offspring; a blessing from the judge being the exclusive legal avenue.

“Lord Amyr,” the young man at the podium spoke, sliding his silk cap off a glistening sweaty pate. “My wife and I,” he paused, gesturing at the woman next him as he began to nervously strangle the hat. “We have paid the church’s sum and now are asking for a blessing for our unborn.” Taking a heavy swallow, he continued, “Please?” he asked. The words came out weak and warbly, and when he looked to his beau for reassurance, she pressed her hands to the podium and raised her chin proudly.

He closed his eyes, valorously conjuring his next words, “Now we-”

“Refused.” Amyr said, cutting the man off, not bothering to even look up.

The man recoiled, his chins sinking into his neck, and began to smooth the fine silk shirt pressing tight to his chest as he took a step back.

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