by C. Greenwood
The detail eludes me, and I let it go, refocusing on the moment. I wouldn’t want to miss the most important day of my life. At least I suspect it’s the most important, although I have no real recollection of my youth or of the time before I became an outlaw. There are only the ghostly fragments of memory that surface in moments like this.
Someone steps forward and places a strong loop of rope around my neck. Rather than fear the rough braid, it seems to me the hangman’s noose is an old friend. I smirk at the man who tightens it.
An official in long robes steps forward and reads from a scroll, reciting a record of my crimes. The list is already familiar to me, so I stop listening to the drone of his voice and instead look out at the crowd of upturned faces. As I scan the gathering of strangers, one hooded figure stands out from the rest—a young girl of around sixteen years. She was once one of my band of thieves, and I was her captain. She has since overthrown me and taken over leadership of my men. And yet somehow I know she is here today to support me.
Not for the first time, her silvery hair and pointed ears stir a distant memory, reminding me of some vague and nameless acquaintance from long ago. Even the weapon she sometimes carries, a glowing bow, feels like a thing I should recognize.
One of my blood, an orphaned girl child, will be a hound at your heels and a thorn in your side. You must be hard on the child to form greatness in her. Teach her pain and strength, for she will need both. The survival of the province depends on it.
I shake aside the words that have often drifted through my mind when looking at the stubborn girl. She is a nuisance, nothing more.
The robed official is still going on, “…sentenced by the greatly merciful but ever-just Praetor Tarius to immediate death…”
The onlookers stir as he continues, their mood seeming to change from curiosity to resentment. They don’t approve of my death. They prefer me to their cruel praetor.
The official, looking nervous, hastens through his speech and asks if I have any final words.
I ignore him, fixing a contemptuous look on my executioners. A Fist steps forward to bind my hands behind my back while another places his hand on the lever that will drop the trapdoor from under my feet in another moment.
I lift my gaze above the heads of the crowd and turn my eyes toward Dimmingwood in the distance. A smile tugs at my lips as I feel the weight of an old amulet around my neck and the familiar buzz of energy surrounding it. Death is only seconds away. But I’m not as frightened as I should be, because I’ve died before. I’m not afraid to do it again.
THE END
~~~
BONUS CONTENT:
CONTINUE READING FOR AN ALTERNATE VIEWPOINT
You’ve been reading Magic of Dimmingwood, a prequel trilogy to the Legends of Dimmingwood series. The following alternate viewpoint is excerpted from the Legends of Dimmingwood series.
~~~
The sky was streaked with the semilight of early dawn, the air crisp with the kind of chill that leaves a tingle in the lungs. A stiff winter wind cut through the market square, whipping long strands of my silver-colored hair into my face. I lifted my hood as I entered the gathered throng around the east end, less as a shield against the wind than for the purpose of hiding myself from curious eyes.
I could scarcely walk anywhere in the city since the day of the praetor’s pardon without being recognized and hailed by the citizens. Their gratitude seemed genuine, but I was uncomfortable under the attention of so many. Their praise made me ill at ease because I wondered how many of them would willingly have cheered at my hanging only a few days ago when I was still an acknowledged outlaw. Besides, today wasn’t a day for congratulations.
I turned a shoulder and slid through the crowd as silently as a fish slipping through dark waters. There was a strange restlessness about the audience, but no one pushed or shoved, and every voice was hushed. I felt a ripple move through the gathering as I made my way forward. Beyond the crowd I glimpsed snatches of color, the crimson and midnight of the Fists’ uniforms as they passed by. The chink of metal armor and the ring of heavy boots echoed across the cobblestone pavement. As one, the crowd strained forward, craning their necks for a view of the escort and their prisoner.
I hung back, clinging to the shadows along the edge of a market stall, inwardly continuing the battle I had thought already decided when I first donned my cloak and slipped outdoors before dawn. How long had I paced the confines of Hadrian’s tiny hut on the river barge, railing at the fate that had brought this story to such an inevitable end? How long had I questioned my intentions in coming here? Was it satisfaction at my victory, a desire to look into the eyes of the leader I had overthrown and let him see that just once it was I who would walk away in triumph? Did a cold part of me want to gloat at such a moment?
I hated to think anything that low could drive me, but my feelings were a confused mass even I couldn’t untangle. All I could be certain of was that whatever initially carried me forward, I took no pleasure now in putting one foot in front of the other, moving deeper into the throng. Roughly I forced my way through the tightly packed spectators, causing a few exclamations and muttered oaths until the offended parties caught a glimpse of my face. Then they fell utterly silent and stood aside. I saw one person turn to another, and like wild flames, a whisper spread through the crowd.
It’s her! She is here! Of course she would be…
I closed my ears to the murmurs and tried not to feel their stares settle over me. Toward the forefront of the crowd I caught sight of my object.
He was being led up a set of long wooden stairs onto a high platform just above the heads of the crowd. A brawny Fist flanked him on either side with iron-gauntleted fists clamped firmly on both his arms. Their presence was unnecessary. He neither struggled nor sagged in defeat between his escorts but carried himself easily, defiance gleaming from jewel-green eyes shot with glints of fire. For a lifetime those eyes had hypnotized everyone who looked into them, compelling a loyalty kings might have envied. They’d drawn me to the very brink of destruction more than once in my overwhelming eagerness to win one look of approval.
And I never had.
It was with a sinking stomach that I watched him ascend the steps to the scaffold. A man in long robes opened a thick scroll to read the listed crimes of the condemned man to the crowd. As if there were any need to do that. As if there was so much as a child in our midst who had not heard of Rideon the Red Hand and couldn’t recite his misdeeds from memory.
I ignored the words of the official and focused my attention on the prisoner. He showed no hint of fear as a loop of rope was placed around his neck and the rough braid tightened around his throat. His eyes roved over the crowd with a chilling confidence as if it was he who waited to witness our execution instead of the reverse. The hint of a smile hovered around his lips as if he laughed at some private joke. As if he and only he were aware this entire plot was unfolding exactly as he had written it and we were the real dupes of the scene. I felt the crowd’s unconscious response of mingled surprise and anger.
We waited in utter silence as the robed official fell silent, his last words ringing out over the stillness.
“…sentenced by the greatly merciful but ever-just Praetor Tarius to immediate death by hanging. Let no man pity the scoundrel or recount his past misdeeds. From this day forward, by the decree of the praetor, to mention the very name of Rideon the Red Hand shall constitute an act of treason against the province and be punished as such.”
Even the crowd seemed to think this a bit much. A few startled gasps erupted as, for a moment, their indignation turned from the convicted man to his oppressor. I wondered if they were remembering an earlier time when some had thought the Red Hand a hero of the common folk for daring to challenge their heavy-fisted ruler.
The executioners hurried with their task as if they could sense the opinion of the people swinging against them. The robed official, looking out at the stony faces turned upward, paled and pr
oclaimed hastily, “If the condemned has any final words, the gracious praetor will allow him to speak them.”
The praetor wasn’t even present, but perhaps the nervous official hoped the prisoner would say something to persuade the crowd to accept his fate without a riot. He might better have feared a rousing speech calculated to incite violence. But neither came. Rideon the Red Hand was too good a player to an audience to ruin a tragic moment or a somber mood with mere words.
I felt sympathies rise higher in the face of his proud silence and arrogant gaze. Even in death it seemed the outlaw mocked his old enemy. He would be a martyr to these people, I realized suddenly, his death a rallying point for future revolt. And that was doubtless exactly how he had planned it.
After a prolonged hush, his executioners evidently decided they had been more than generous. Now they acted with rude haste to secure the prisoner’s hands tightly behind his back before removing their own feet from the vicinity of the trapdoor. A uniformed Fist moved to the lever that would drop the floor. I sensed his eagerness at the task and knew with a flash of insight the Fists had fought over which of them would receive the coveted pleasure of drawing the lever that would plunge the outlaw to his death. Had Terrac been among them? Surely not. I didn’t see him here today.
The question was blasted from my mind by a sudden bolt of emotion shooting through me like a hot arrow. Pride. Fear. Fury. Regret.
They weren’t my emotions— They came from the man at the end of the rope. But for a moment they had been made mine. I hadn’t sought Rideon out this final time, but somehow his life essence had touched mine, and despite the unpleasantness of the contact, I couldn’t find it in me to shake it loose. On the surface Rideon remained aloof, head held high, feet planted wide, as if they stood confidently on firm forest ground, rather than hovering over a chasm of death.
But for a brief instant, my magic was stronger than it had ever been. I was one with him. Somehow, miraculously, his eyes dropped to find me unerringly in the crowd. Our gazes met and held. I discovered then what I had come for. I felt his flicker of surprise as he realized I was the last one standing after all the others had fallen, felt a grudging respect from him that warmed me at my very core. I was again the hungry hound who had waited so long to win my captain’s recognition.
I sensed rather than saw the Fist’s hand hovering over the lever.
Rideon’s eyes left mine, lifting to gaze above the heads of the crowd and into the distance. Toward Dimmingwood. I watched his face take on a faraway look, saw his chest rise in a final intake of breath. And then, suddenly, he was gone. The platform dropped from beneath him with a sharp cracking noise. The rope went taut, the crowd held their breaths. And then it was all over.
I didn’t linger after but turned abruptly and shoved my way through the crowd to exit the market square. I needed to get into the open air, needed to find some place where I could breathe again. I felt the rolling waves of the crowd’s resentment breaking, heard the confused cries and threats from the Fists as the newly angry mob closed in. Too late the people realized their enemy had also been their champion. I didn’t pause to look back as the fighting erupted. Violence hovered in the air of this city, and perhaps it would for a long time. But I wouldn’t be a part of it today.
Today my captain was dead.
END OF EXCERPT
~~~
You’ve been reading an excerpt from the Legends of Dimmingwood series. Meet old and new characters and continue the adventures of the forest outlaws in:
Magic of Thieves, Legends of Dimmingwood, Book 1
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA TODAY bestselling author C. Greenwood started writing stories shortly after learning her ABCs and hasn't put down her pen since. After falling in love with the fantasy genre more than a decade ago, she began writing sword and sorcery novels. The result was the birth of her best known works, the Legends of Dimmingwood series. In addition to her writing, Ms. Greenwood is a wife, mom and graphic designer. Want to learn more about C. Greenwood or her books? Check out her website or “like” her on Facebook.
Legends of Dimmingwood Series
Magic of Thieves ~ Book I
Betrayal of Thieves ~ Book II
Circle of Thieves ~ Book III
Redemption of Thieves ~ Book IV
Journey of Thieves ~ Book V
Rule of Thieves ~ Book VI
Catalysts of Chaos Series
Mistress of Masks ~ Book I
Betrayer of Blood ~ Book II
Summoner of Storms ~ Book III
Clash of Catalysts ~ Book IV
Magic of Dimmingwood Series
Thief’s Blade ~ Book I
Thief’s Fall ~ Book II
Thief’s Curse ~ Book III
