by Allan Cole
"Just don’t do it anymore," Nerisa said. Then she gave him the treat.
Gundara grinned and gobbled it down. "I like you, dearie," he said. "I hope Safar gives you a nice little diddle after he gets the book."
"Don’t talk like that," Nerisa said. "It isn’t nice."
"But it’s what you want, isn’t it?" the Favorite teased. "A big old sloppy kiss and then get diddled all night."
Nerisa tucked the book away with the stone idol. "That’s enough," she said. "And if you say one word like that to Safar, I’ll, I’ll... never speak to you again. See if I don’t."
Apparently this was a greater threat than a neck-wringing, for Gundara instantly apologized and said he’d never, ever do such a thing. Then he led the way back to the library door, shrunk down to flea size again and they slipped out into the corridor. After an hour of creeping about in the dark, Nerisa sprinted through the big main gate and headed down the broad avenue - leap-frogging from shadow to shadow as she made her way back to Safar’s place.
She arrived just as Kalasariz and his men were dragging Safar down the stairs.
* * *
It was a night of terror in Walaria. Kalasariz’ men swept through the city, breaking down doors and hauling frightened young men into the streets where they were beaten and questioned under the shuttered windows of their families’ homes. Then they were taken to the spymaster’s torture rooms where they were questioned further and forced to sign confessions. There were about fifty in all, although less than half were acquainted with Olari. The others were innocent, but had been marked for seizure by Kalasariz’ informers who did a record business that night collecting bribes from enemies of the young men and their families.
Justice was swift. There was no trial, nor were any of the condemned present when a High Judge sentenced them to death. The mass execution was set for the following day - which happened to be Founder’s Day. Town criers went through the city, shouting the news of the executions and posting notices listing the names of the condemned and their crimes.
At the top of the list was the name of the ringleader - one Safar Timura, foreigner.
At the bottom of the list was the name of one of his dupes - Olari, citizen.
* * *
"Apparently I misjudged my family’s influence," Olari said.
Safar wrung out the rag, freshened it from the pail of cold water and wiped the blood from Olari’s face. He had been beaten so badly his head was swollen to half again its size.
"You always were a master of understatement," Safar said.
Other than the bruises he’d suffered when he was captured, Safar was unscathed. For some reason he hadn’t been tortured and his "confession" - an unsigned document with Kalasariz’ seal - had been good enough for the High Judge.
"The real pity of it is," Olari said, "I’m not even getting any credit. I’m to go down in Walarian history as a mere minion."
"And I the minion in chief," Safar said. "On the whole I’d rather pass on the honor. But Kalasariz was quite insistent. You know how persuasive he is."
"My father most likely paid a handsome sum to have me listed as a dupe of your devilish tongue," Olari said. "Protecting the family honor and all that. Stupid, I guess, is better than king of the traitors."
The two young men were in the company of six other youths, all suffering from the ghastly work of the torturer. They were slumped in the center of the cell, barely able to chase away inquisitive insects and rats. All eight of them were to be beheaded by Tulaz, the master executioner. The others, crowded in nearby cells, would be parceled out in lots five or less to ten other executioners.
"There is one consolation," Olari said.
"What’s that?" Safar asked. "I could use a bit of cheering up."
"I’m to go last," Olari said. "Whether Tulaz succeeds or fails, I’ll be remembered. If he strikes off my head with one blow, I’ll be helping him break his record. If not, why I’ll go down in the wagering books as the one who ended Tulaz’ remarkable streak."
Safar laughed. It was a bitter sound. "I wish I could be there to see how it turns out," he said. "Unfortunately, I go first."
Olari tried to laugh. A sharp pain in his ribs turned it to a low groan. When he’d recovered, he shook his head, saying, "I always was-"
His words were cut off by a coughing fit. Safar held him until it stopped. Then his companion spit blood into the pail. There was a plop as one of his teeth fell into the water.
He looked up at Safar, grinning a bloody grin.
"What I was trying to get out before nature so rudely interrupted me," Olari said, "was that I’ve always been a lucky dog.
"And it looks like that luck is going to stick with me until the very end."
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Death Speaks
"You’re too tense," the trainer complained as he kneaded the massive body stretched out before him. "Can’t get the kinks out ‘less you relax."
"Slept like shit," Tulaz said. "Don’t know what’s wrong with me. I al’ays sleep like a babe. ‘Specially afore a work day. But it weren’t like that last night. Kept dreamin’ about this little fiendish thing. Body like a man, face like a toad. Kept on sayin’ - ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
The trainer’s brow knotted in worry. The executions - moved to the main arena to handle the Founder’s Day crowds - were less than an hour away. All his savings had been risked on the outcome.
"Bad luck, a dream like that," Tulaz went on. "Got me all out of sorts, it did. Can’t figure out what I done to bring it on."
"You purged yourself like I tole you?" the trainer asked, pummeling Tulaz’ thick body.
The Master Executioner of Walaria snorted. "‘Course. Filled five buckets, didn’t I?"
"And you’ve been stickin’ to your diet?"
"Gruel and water’d wine, nothin’ more," Tulaz said. "It’s this big rush that’s botherin’ me. I usually get some notice, you know? Couple of days at least to get into shape. ‘Sides, I just broke me own record couple a days ago.
"Seven heads takes a lot out of a man, which most people don’t appreciate. They just come and see me lop ‘em off. Miss all the fine points. Don’t know how hard I works to keep a good form. I ain’t recovered from the seven, yet. Now I gotta go for eight, afore I’m even ready."
"Don’t think about it," the trainer advised. "It’s just one more day like any other. Keep that in your noggin’ and it’ll work out fine."
"Sure," Tulaz said. "That’s the trick. Just another day. Nothin’ special about it."
The trainer poured scented oil on Tulaz and started working it in. "And each head, too," he said. "Look at ‘em the same way. Don’t count how many you gots to go. One or eight, what’s the difference? They all gotta come off one at a time. Nothin’ special about that."
"Yeah," Tulaz said. "That’s the only way they go - one at a time. Thanks. I’m feelin’ much better already."
The trainer chuckled and said thanks weren’t necessary. He finished his task, covered Tulaz with heavy towels and advised him to take a nap.
"I’ll call you in plenty of time," he said.
He crept out of the training room, but just before he exited he looked back at Tulaz. The giant executioner was lying face up, a brawny arm shielding his eyes.
And he was muttering to himself: "Shut up, shut up, shut up. Wonder what he meant?"
For the first time in Tulaz’ long and illustrious career he was obviously distracted and suffering from a decided lack of confidence. The trainer left the room, wondering where he could get some money quick to lay off his bets.
* * *
The crowd roared. Safar was led out first, followed by Olari and six others, all manacled and chained together. Forty two heads had already been severed and the crowd was bored by the spotty performances of the executioners. But this was the main event: Tulaz, the Master Executioner of Walaria, was going for an eighth and record head.
Safar was nearly blinded by t
he bright morning sun. He tried to shield his face, but his arms were brought up short by a chain linked to a thick iron waist band. A guard cursed and prodded him along with a spear butt.
When his vision cleared Safar could see that he was being taken to a large, hastily erected execution platform in the center of the arena. It had been thrown up next to the dignitaries’ stand, where King Didima, Umurhan, and Kalasariz sat in pillowed and canopied comfort.
When Kalasariz announced the results of the roundup, Didima had decided to make the mass executions part of the Founder’s Day ceremonies. The king prided himself on making quick, tough decisions, even if others believed them too daring or tradition-breaking. He thought the executions would whet the appetites of his citizens for the festivities that would follow.
"It will bring us all together at a special time," he told Umurhan and Kalasariz. "Heal the discord among our citizens."
Umurhan, a usually cautious man, had agreed without argument. Although he didn’t state his reasons, the High Priest of Walaria had been troubled of late that his annual display of sorcery wasn’t being greeted with the sort of respectful enthusiasm and awe it deserved. Fifty severed heads would go long way to warming up the crowd.
Kalasariz also thought it was an excellent idea, although he too chose not to mention them to his two comrades. For his purposes it was always better to get political executions out of the way as fast as possible - before families and friends and loved ones had time to work up a good, lasting grievance. Swift executions put the fear of the gods in them, quelling vengeful thoughts.
The crowd gathered to witness the event was the largest in Walaria’s history. It spilled out of the stands onto the floor of the arena. Hundreds were packed within twenty feet of the execution platform itself and more were squeezing in every minute, crowing over their good fortune and clutching prized tickets Didima’s soldiers were selling at premium prices.
Safar’s guards had to push people out of the way as he and his companions in misery shambled toward the platform. People shouted at him, snaking hands past the guards to try to touch him. For luck, he supposed. If so, it was a sorry sort of fortune. Some cursed him. Some cheered him. Some cried "courage, my lad."
Hawkers mingled with the crowd, selling food and souvenirs. One enterprising young man had fistfuls of candied figs mounted on pointed sticks. The figs were painted with food dye to make them look like human heads. Blood-colored food dye streaked sticks to mimic the sharpened stakes Safar and the others would soon have their heads mounted upon.
Safar was too numb to know fear. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. If he had any feeling at all it was to wish it would be over quick.
All eight were led onto the platform, slipping on the bloody planks. Men with buckets and mops were cleaning up the gore from the previous executions. Others sprinkled sand around the cutting block to give Tulaz decent footing. The condemned were lined up at the edge of the platform, where guards doused them with cold water and gave them wine-soaked sponges to suck so they wouldn’t faint and spoil the show.
Then Tulaz himself mounted the platform and the crowd thundered its approval. The Master Executioner was dressed in his finest white silk pantaloons. His immense torso glistened with expensive oil allowing the bright sun to pick out the definition of his mighty muscles picked out by the bright sun. His white silk hood was spotless, without a crease or stray thread to spoil its symmetry. Thick bands of gold encircled his wrists and biceps.
Tulaz went right to work, paying no attention to the crowd. First he checked the steps where the condemned would kneel, then the hollowed-out chopping block where each man would stretch his neck to receive the blade. When he was satisfied he shouted for his sword case. While he waited he drew on special gloves created just for him by the best glove-maker in Walaria. The palm surface was pebbled and the fingers were cut out to improve his grip. The crowd was hushed as an assistant presented the open case and Tulaz bowed before it, muttering a short prayer of greeting. The hush turned to a deafening roar when he removed the gleaming scimitar and held it up high for the gods to see.
Tulaz lowered the blade, caressing it and whispering endearments as if it were his child. Then he removed his favorite whetstone from a slot in his wide, leather belt and he began to hone the edge. Each slow practiced movement drew cries of admiration from the crowd, but Tulaz kept his eyes averted, his attention fully on the sword.
After a few moments Tulaz walked over to the condemned, still stropping his blade. He paused in front of Safar, who looked up and found himself peering into the darkest, saddest eyes he’d ever seen.
"It’ll be over soon, lad," Tulaz said, his voice remarkably soothing. "There’s nothin’ personal, you know. Law says what it says and I just do me job. So don’t fight it, son. And don’t jerk about. I’m your friend. Last friend you’ll ever know. And I promise I’ll make her nice and clean and send you to your rest quick as I can."
Safar didn’t answer - what was there to say? Nonetheless, Tulaz seemed satisfied and he turned away, stone whisk-whisking along the steel edge.
The executioner had mounted the platform still feeling edgy, unsettled. But after talking to Safar he found his nerves steadying. He thought, That’s good. Al’ays nice to talk to your first head. Let’s the gods know you’re serious about your work.
He turned to the soldiers guarding the condemned. "Get those chains off’n my heads," he said. "And rub ‘em down good afore the bodies stiffen up."
Safar suddenly felt lighter as the chains fell away. Strong hands massaged him, bringing life back to his numb limbs. Then he was guided forward and he heard Olari call to him, but the words were lost in the crowd noises.
"Steady, lad," he heard Tulaz say as he was pushed into a kneeling position before the block.
Safar raised up to take one last look at the world. He saw a sea of faces screaming for his death. Some snapped out at him with remarkable clarity. There was an old man, howling through toothless gums. There was a matron, babe at breast, watching the proceedings with a look of remarkable serenity. Then, just below him, he saw a young face - a girl’s face.
It was Nerisa!
She charged out of the crowd and rushed the platform. Soldiers grabbed at her, but she ducked under their outstretched hands. The nails of those grasping hands raked blood streaks on her arms. Fingers tightened on her tunic, but she pulled away with such force that all they captured was torn cloth.
"Here Safar!" she shouted. "Here!"
She threw something at the platform. It sailed through the air and landed next to the cutting block with a heavy thud. Safar didn’t look to see what it was. Instead, he watched in horror as the soldiers reached Nerisa.
A mace crashed down on her head - blood spraying everywhere.
Then she was buried under a dozen soldiers.
The crowd roar diminished to puzzled shouts and then a low buzz as people asked each other what had happened.
Tulaz’ voice rose above the buzz - "That’s it! I can’t work like this. The whole thing’s off!"
Safar heard another man speak most urgently - "You can’t quit now, Tulaz! Think of all the money riding on this, man! They’ll skin you alive!" It was the trainer, who’d evidently found enough coin to copper his bet.
Then a great voice thundered, "Citizens! Friends!"
It was King Didima, who’d come to his feet to address the crowd, his voice magically amplified by Umurhan.
"Today is a great day in Walaria’s history," Didima said. "It would be wrong of us and an insult to the gods who favor our fair city to allow a malcontent to spoil these holy ceremonies. We have all had a marvelous time this morning. And we owe a debt of gratitude to Lord Kalasariz for his thoughtful efforts to present us with such marvelous entertainment, while at the same time striking a blow for all law-abiding citizens.
"Now, let us resume our entertainment, my good friends and fellow Walarians. Our great executioner, Tulaz, was about to astound us with a
feat never before attempted."
The king turned toward Tulaz, shouting, "Let the executions resume!"
Someone grabbed Safar by the hair and forced his head on the block. Under royal command Tulaz stepped forward, slashing the air with his sword to warm up.
"Hold him steady," he shouted.
The hand tightened its grip in Safar’s hair.
Just then a small, familiar voice hissed from beside him, "Shut up, Gundaree! I don’t need your help."
Tulaz froze, his nightmare coming back to haunt him. "Who said that? Who said shut up?"
And Gundara said, "Shut up! I’m not listening, Gundaree. Uh, uh. No, no. Don’t care what you say. Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
The fingers loosened and Safar jerked free. He glanced down and saw the object Nerisa had thrown - it was the turtle idol. He up and saw Tulaz towering over him, scimitar raised high to strike. But the executioner was motionless, stricken with fear.
"The dream!" he said. "It’s coming true!"
"Forget the dream," the trainer cried, pushing at the brawny executioner. "Quick! Cut off his head!"
Safar grabbed up the idol. "Appear, Favorite!" he commanded.
There was a boil of smoke and Gundara leaped out onto the platform.
Tulaz goggled at the little figure. "No!" he shouted. "Get away from me!"
"What’s he all excited about?" Gundara asked Safar.
"Never mind that," Safar snapped. "Do something about the sword before he changes his mind."
"Okay. If you insist. But it looks like a pretty nice sword."
"Just do it," Safar said.
Gundara made a lazy gesture, there was a loud crack! and the sword shattered like glass.
Tulaz screamed in horror and leaped off the platform.
Gundara brushed his claws together, as if knocking away dirt. "Anything else, Master?"
"The spell," Safar said. "Help me cast it now!"
Gundara plucked a tube of paper from his sleeve and tossed it to Safar. It grew to full size as it sailed the short distance and Safar snatched it out of the air.
