The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  Despite the ruin inflicted on Deckin’s face, I could still discern the expression of sour contempt he turned upon the communicant. “My father got an Ascendant,” Deckin said with a weary shake of his head. “All I get is a piss-smelling old goat.”

  The laugh that rippled through the crowd wasn’t particularly loud, but it did suffice to earn a hard glare from the constable. He opened his mouth to utter some words of castigation only for Deckin to interrupt him.

  “I’ll make testament,” he said, voice strained but still loud enough to reach all ears present. “But not to this Martyr-bothering loon. My words are for them.” Deckin jerked his head at the throng.

  “You have no rights here, traitor!” the constable snarled, advancing towards Deckin. “No rights to speak! No rights to do anything other than die for your crimes…”

  His voice faded when the knight stepped into his path. Where before the constable’s fear had been muted by his pride, now it blossomed into full, wide-eyed terror as a few short words emerged from the knight’s visor. Neither I nor any other soul in the crowd heard the words the knight spoke then, for they were too faint and distorted by his helm. However, the constable heard them very clearly.

  Swallowing, he stepped back from the knight, flustered hands wiping at his long coat before he clasped them together. Taking a moment to master himself, he addressed the crowd once more. “In observance of custom and Covenant law, the traitor is permitted to make testament.”

  Deckin spared the constable a short, pitying glance before hunching as he struggled to get his feet under him. He rose with a noticeable sway, legs trembling and chains rattling on the platform’s timbers. His wrists were confined by manacles and I thought he had clasped them into fists until I saw that his fingers had been severed down to the second knuckle. Although the words he spoke would never fade from my memory, I think it was the sight of his hands that set me on the course that would dominate my life for years to come. While those hands had left me bruised and cowed on many occasions, looking at them now I could only recall the times they had rested on my shoulder in affection or comfort. That first day in the forest loomed largest of all, the knowledge of deliverance that came from his touch. Whatever else he had done, Deckin Scarl had once saved my life.

  “I seek no pardon from the Seraphile,” Deckin began, voice hoarse at first but gathering strength as he winced and managed to straighten his back. “They’ll make of me what they will, and a pox on them if they don’t like what they see.”

  This drew a muted thrum of mirth from the throng, as well as an appalled gape from Communicant Ancred. The old man came close to toppling over as he made a tottering effort to retreat from this heretical outlaw with all haste, something that stoked the crowd’s amusement to a yet higher pitch.

  “As for treason,” Deckin continued, “I’ll make no bones about my intent to take this duchy, but I didn’t plan to do so for my father’s sake. The king took his head with cause and he’s welcome to it. No, I planned to take this duchy because it’s mine, by right of strength and will if not blood. All duchies and all kingdoms are won in the same way, and don’t let these noble fuckers tell you otherwise. If that’s treason, then so be it, and I’ll seek no pardon for it. As regards the Pretender, I never met or had any truck with the bastard, so no pardon needed there either. But…” His voice dwindled and his head lolled a little and he was forced to steady himself as the tremble of his legs threatened to tip him over.

  “But, I do seek pardon from you,” Deckin went on. “I stand convicted as a thief and a killer, for that is what I’ve been. I can claim reasons, but they’re lies and you’ve heard them all before. I could claim that I stole to eat and I killed to keep what I stole. But the truth is I stole and I killed for ambition. I’ll suffer no shame for the nobles I robbed, or for those I killed, but I will suffer it for stealing from you. For killing your kin and your kind. Those are my true crimes, and for that I seek your pardon.”

  He paused again, lowering his gaze, the battered, scabbed and stained features taking on a sorrowful cast. It was then that he saw me. Deckin had always possessed unusually sharp eyes capable of spotting ambush or prey in the shifting green of the forest with what I felt to be unnatural swiftness. Now those eyes picked my face out of the assembly with much the same ease, widening only slightly while he kept any sign of recognition from his distorted visage save for the smallest curve to his lips. He held my gaze for only a heartbeat before looking away, but I saw enough even in that brief interval to know that Deckin Scarl would die this day with at least one morsel of comfort.

  “My band, those that followed me, are all dead now,” he said, voice growing yet more hoarse. “But if their souls linger to witness this testament, I would have them know that I valued their service and their company more than they knew. We fought and we bickered, but we also suffered hunger and cold together, as families do, and family is to be cherished, as is life.” His eyes flicked back to me, just for the briefest instant. “And life should not be wasted on pointless feuds or hopeless endeavours. This much I’ve learned.”

  Blinking, he glanced at the knight and nodded. “My thanks, old friend.”

  The knight gave no reply, at least not one I could hear. Setting a gauntleted hand on Deckin’s shoulder, he guided him to his knees. I didn’t want to see what came next. I wanted to flee and find a corner to weep in. But I didn’t. Escaping the sight of Deckin’s end would have been a betrayal. As far as I knew, I was all that remained of the band of miscreants he called family. The only one to stand witness to his end and know grief rather than jubilation.

  The knight with the eagle breastplate went about his business with swift and unhesitant efficiency; no final pause to twist the crowd’s tension tighter, no flourish to the rise and fall of his longsword. Nor, as may have been his intention, did he allow any delay in which Deckin could call out any last declamations. I stood in frozen observance as Deckin’s head parted from his body with the first stroke. It made a faint thud as it met the planking, the body slumping into a pile of bones and flesh with blood jetting from the stump, thick at first, then subsiding to a trickle.

  I had never seen a traitor’s execution before so only learned later that it was custom for the executioner to hold the severed head up and proclaim justice done in the king’s name. This knight, however, had little regard for custom that morning. As soon as the deed was done, he turned smartly about and strode to his former position, resuming the same posture, bloodied sword pointed down. His head failed to turn as silence descended, refusing to regard the constable’s expectant stare.

  To my surprise, there were no shouts or cheers from the crowd. The decapitation had been met with a sharp inhalation but none of the wild celebration I’d expected. Usually the air was thick with cheers when an outlaw dangled from the rope or a heretic suffered a public whipping. It may have been his testament, or the unexpected swiftness of his end, but that day the crowd saw no reason to celebrate the death of the Outlaw King of the Shavine Forest.

  I watched the constable stiffen in annoyance at the knight’s continued indifference, face flushing in mingled disgust and resignation, he bent to grasp the fallen head, gripping it with both hands.

  “Behold,” he said, straightening to raise the slack-faced, dripping thing up for all to see. His voice was hoarse and he had to cough before recovering his former stridency. “Behold! The head of Deckin Scarl, traitor and outlaw. Let his name be spoken no more. All hail King Tomas!”

  He unwisely chose to shake Deckin’s head in concert with his final declaration, sending a copious spatter of gore over his coat which rather spoiled the moment. The constable was unable to conceal his spasm of revulsion quickly followed by a retching which saw lordly vomit mix with outlaw blood on the planking. The crowd’s response was equally unedifying, a murmur of grudging subservience rather than an outpouring of fervent loyalty.

  “All hail King Tomas,” I muttered along with everyone else.

  The cro
wd began to thin immediately, heading for the village where the taverns were sure to be busy. I contrived to linger, watching the knight wait until the constable and attendant functionaries had left before shifting from his stance. A few castle servants climbed the steps to gather up the corpse but were soon sent scurrying by a barked command and dismissive wave from the knight. “Away!”

  He raised a hand and gestured to the kingsmen below, summoning a half-dozen to the platform where they went about carefully wrapping the body and head in a muslin shroud. Once done they raised the burden on to their shoulders, carrying it down the steps and away towards the dark bulk of the castle.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I kept to the most shadowed corner of the alehouse, having no desire to draw the eye of the soldiers that crowded its mean confines. Those who had gathered for the execution had drifted away by now, hefting their bundles and embarking on the long trek back to their farm or village. In their wake, the soldiers came for their grog. I began the evening with a clear intent: I would sit quietly and garner all details I could regarding the demise of Deckin and the others. I was particularly keen to learn the name of the knight who wore the brass eagle on his breastplate.

  I have learned much more than I care to about revenge and its myriad complexities, but perhaps the principal lesson to heed is that it begins as a small thing, a seed destined to sprout monstrous branches. Feuds are an intrinsic and, in some way, necessary part of the outlaw’s life, for they ensure a certain order among the chaos of those required to live beyond legal stricture. Betrayal inevitably results in death or the promise of such, as does the murder of one you call leader.

  So, as I sat and listened to the soldiers’ gossip, finding little of interest in truth, my busy mind began its plotting once again. Instead of outlandish schemes of rescue it now evolved equally absurd stratagems for the murder of the eagle-bearing knight, whoever he may be. There was a morose quality to my plotting, the sight of Deckin’s head rolling on the platform adding to my malaise. As is the way with misery when visited upon young men, it stirred an unwise thirst for ale, which in this establishment was not as watered down as one might expect.

  “Another, good sir,” I told the innkeeper with forced humour and a slight slur, setting my tankard down. He waited until I slid a shek across the uneven timber before consenting to provide a refill. Sudden weariness gripped me then and I leaned heavily on the counter, feeling a welling of sorrow that, incredibly, brought tears to my eyes. The inescapable knowledge that I was now utterly alone brought forth memories of that first night in the woods as a boy. I recalled the sting of the bruises left by the beating the pimp had given me. How I had whimpered as I stumbled about until Deckin and Lorine found me.

  A small metallic glimmer shone in my unfocused gaze as I slumped lower on the serving table and I blinked moisture away to see the Covenant medallion dangling before my eyes. It was such a light, inconsequential thing I had forgotten it lay about my neck.

  Keep the bitch, I thought, recalling Deckin’s words regarding the luck afforded by Martyrs. A man makes his own fortune. I took hold of the tiny bronze disc, my lips twisting into a smile at the thought of this small token serving as a protective charm throughout my recent travails. How Hostler would have raged at me for voicing that particular notion.

  “A devotee of Martyr Hersephone, is it?”

  I blinked and wiped my eyes again before turning to regard the man at my side. I knew him as a soldier instantly, but not of the type I was accustomed to. His features were lean and clean shaven and his tunic dyed in the colours of a kingsman. A dagger with a garnet pommel sat in a scabbard at his belt alongside a sword, the handle of which was enmeshed in wire. The dagger might be for show, but the sword certainly wasn’t. He wore a friendly expression but there was a keenness to his gaze that would have sounded more of a warning bell if I hadn’t partaken of so much under-watered ale.

  “‘And lo,’” I quoted raising my tankard to the soldier, “‘when her kin laid her in the earth her body had been ravaged and her breath stilled, but she did rise come the morning sun and no sign of injury marred her beauty.’” I smiled and took a deep draught from my tankard. “Thus speak the scrolls, anyhow.”

  “So young and yet already a scholar of Covenant lore.” The soldier laughed, settling beside me and waving the innkeeper over. “A brandy, and one for my devoted friend.”

  “Not a scholar,” I muttered, fingers turning the medallion. “But I had a… teacher. A man who knew much of the Martyrs, though his principal area of study was the Scourge.”

  “Supplicant, was he?” the soldier enquired.

  “Hardly.” I laughed again, the sound grating in its cynicism. However, my humour faded quickly as the memory of Hostler’s demise flared bright and ugly in my head.

  “Don’t be sad, friend.” The soldier’s hand, light but strong, jostled my arm. “We’ve much to celebrate, after all. Deckin Scarl’s head finally rests on a spike, as well it should. Drink to that—” he pushed the brandy cup into my hand “—if nothing else.”

  “He did his share of bad, to be sure,” I mumbled, raising the cup towards my lips, then pausing in suspicion. “Did you put a sovereign in this?”

  The soldier laughed again, clapping me on the back. “I’m Crown Company, friend. Those that march under the Crown banner have no need for tricks when we need fresh blood. I’ve seen men fight for the privilege.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And the pay. Three times what any duke’ll cough up, plus a share of the ransom whenever we snag ourselves a noble. Rewards too, on occasion. Each of us got two silver sovs for our part in snaring that shit-eater Scarl.”

  There was a precision to this statement that should have made me wary, a prod to the words and a weight to his gaze that told of a man seeking a reaction. Once again, to my shame, my faculties were too degraded to take proper heed.

  “You were there?” I asked. “At… when he got took?”

  “Surely. Bit more of a fight than we were expecting, if I’m honest. Lost three men from our company and another twenty-odd from the duchy-men and sheriff’s lot. Those buggers with the tattoos were the worst. But we got ’em all in the end, bar a few runners. Cowardly rats scampering off to the woods to let their kin be slaughtered like hogs.” He raised his cup to his lips, eyes never straying from me as he drank, steady enough to finally set me on edge.

  Slowly, I let my gaze wander the tavern, finding two more soldiers standing at the door. They held no tankards, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. A half-glance to my left revealed another leaning against the counter. He was taller than the others by several inches and alongside the sword on his belt there sat a coiled length of strong rope. None of them looked directly at me, which told the tale clear enough.

  There’s nothing quite like fear to sober a man. It floods through you from head to toe, returning clarity with an instancy beyond any physic or potion. It also adds a tremble to your hands and treacherous quaver to your voice which, fortunately, I was skilled in quelling. However, before speaking on, I was unable to choke down a cough. Just a small noise, but one men such as these would take as proof their snare had found some prey.

  “Must’ve been quite a fight,” I said, putting a dull, disinterested note to my voice and taking a hefty swig of brandy.

  “That it was,” the soldier agreed. “One I confess I’ll take greater pride in than even our worst battle with the Pretender’s mob. Y’see, lad—” he inched closer to me, speaking with soft, earnest sincerity “—I had m’self a grudge to settle. Just recently I’ve nourished a great hatred for outlaws. War is always an ugly thing, but it gets uglier still when there’s blood to settle. Family blood, I mean to say.”

  His hand snaked over my shoulders as he continued in companionable confidence. “Not a rich family, my folk, but not full churl either. Da was a farmer but he owned his own plot so we did better than most. But he had three sons, all of whom lived to manhood by the Seraphile’s grace
, and only the eldest can inherit. I was youngest and Ralf second in line. We could’ve stayed, I suppose, but it’s not an easy thing to work as a mere servant to your own brother, so when the banners came marching by it seemed a decent choice.

  “Wasn’t quite so much war about then so the sergeants were a mite more picky. But we were strong lads, well fed and muscled through all the labour we did, and they took us. In time I got chosen to try for Crown Company. Ralf, Martyrs bless him, was always a little too fond of his drink and his brawling so would remain a duchy man-at-arms. Time and marching orders meant we hardly set eyes on one another for years, till recently when duty called me back to the Shavine Marches. Except, the brother I set eyes on this time was dead. Some fucker put a knife in him, and his friend.”

  The soldier paused to raise his brandy cup again, taking his time over it, his arm tightening about my shoulders. “If I’m honest I wouldn’t have known him if his sergeant hadn’t assured me of it. His face was all swollen and nibbled by fish. Seems whoever killed him shoved him in the river afterwards. Took three days before he washed up downstream. His company thought he’d deserted, which is a shameful thing. For all his faults, Ralf was no coward.

  “I had the Supplicant pen a letter home about it all. My ma can’t read it but my sister-in-law knows her letters. When I sent it, I wanted to return the keepsake she gave him the day we marched off under the banners. Gave me one too. She’s like you, y’see, devout in her faith with a particular fondness for Martyr Hersephone. ‘You’ll need luck,’ she told us.” The soldier’s hand disappeared into the collar of his tunic, emerging with a small bronze disc on a chain. “‘And she brings luck.’”

  He set his hand down on the counter alongside mine and I saw his medallion to be a near identical version of the one still dangling from my fingers. “She’s skilled with trinkets, my ma,” the soldier continued. “Sells ’em at the fairs and such. Made one medallion for me and another for Ralf. Not that you’d’ve known him by that name. Y’see, he had a gift for taming birds so folk called him Hawker. Curious thing: when they fished him out of the water, his medallion was nowhere to be found.”