by Jeff Gunzel
Eyes glistening with tears, a lump growing in her throat, Viola sat in silence for a long time. Of all the information she was forced to take in this day, this news might have been the hardest to absorb. It was both beautiful and painful all at the same time. After all these accusations of her being little more than a monster, a twisted mutation with no soul, it hadn’t even occurred to her that she might have had a real mother once. And not just any mother, but a woman who loved her with all her heart. And yet she would never meet this woman who died before her time, who gave up everything so that she and her brother could have a chance at life. It almost made her feel...human.
“Somebody once said something to me,” Viola said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “He said that I wasn’t real. He said that I shouldn’t even exist.” Liam moved to her back and placed his hand on her shoulder. “For so long I believed that was true,” Viola sniffed.
Hamas smiled at her as he reached inside his coat pocket, carefully retrieving a small red flower. It was pretty beat up with several petals missing, but still held a unique beauty all its own. After giving it a healthy sniff, he rose from his seat and walked around the table. “When I know I’ll be traveling a long distance, I always make sure to take a bit of home with me,” he said, sniffing the flower again. “We call this flower a ‘herbon.’ I guess you might say that my strange practice helps keep me grounded. But the way I see it, it’s a constant reminder that home is not as far away as it may feel sometimes.”
Gently, he placed the blossom in Viola’s hair, then kissed her on the forehead. “Again, I only wish to tell you the truth. You are just as real and beautiful as this blossom, Viola. And anyone who can’t see that is nothing but a blind fool. Don’t you ever forget that.”
*
Townfolk gathered, pushing and shoving to try and get a better view. A line of soldiers led the way down the street, the king himself marching in step just behind them. There had been no formal announcement, no warning of an upcoming execution. Yet a few leaked whispers from the keep soon became a flood of wild rumors. Mere hours after the buzz hit the streets, the people of Shadowfen were now seeing it unfold before their eyes. Something really was going on today.
The king’s scowl spoke volumes. Had they caught a traitor, a spy perhaps? Normally, he would have been much more vocal in declaring a public victory for the capture. Milo had never been one to pass on an opportunity to take credit, no matter who actually deserved it. But aside from a few street whispers, today’s event had largely been kept a secret.
Behind the king marched a number of red-robed clerics, their hoods pulled down over their faces. Even with their expressions concealed in shadow, a grave sadness could be felt radiating off them. Three near the back appeared to be carrying something, a wooden post it looked like. At the center of it all, a shirtless, shoeless man was being dragged. His pants were little more than a pair of tattered ribbons. His body was bruised and beaten. Hands shackled at his front, he wept with his head hung as the last line of soldiers prodded him along, making their displeasure known with the occasional kick or slap.
A spy? A thief, perhaps? But why had there been no announcement, or even a trial for that matter? The only way a sentencing could have moved this swiftly was by the king’s order.
With the growing crowd looking on, the front line of soldiers stopped near the front gate and stood in formation. The second line of clerics laid down what now appeared to be a wooden cross, then promptly stepped away from it. Still nothing was said, no word from the royal speaker, or even the king who was just standing in silence.
“Guards,” the king finally said, motioning to the cross laying on the sand. Two soldiers stepped forward, each snatching one arm of the prisoner. Crying, thrashing, he kicked futilely as they led him over to it, then threw him down. “I warned you, did I not?” Milo said, facing the watching clerics who refused to look up at their king. “Now witness the price of failure!” Not once did he acknowledge the stunned crowd looking on. This angry display was not for them; it was far more personal than that. As promised, one of the clerics would die this day, and all his brothers would be forced to watch.
The downed cleric’s cries were cut short when one of the soldiers smacked the side of his head with the broad side of his sword. Head jerking to the side, blood ran down from his temple as he began to mumble incoherently. After tying his hands and feet to the cross, another man in plain uniform stepped forward with a hammer in one hand, metal spikes in the other. Planting one knee in the sand, he lined up the first spike, pressing its point against one wrist.
“Stop,” Milo commanded with a wave. His eyes scanned across the line of frightened clerics, all the while taking the time to drink in their fear. A few brave souls looked up, a flash of hope in their eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t going to go through with it after all. Maybe it was all just a test to frighten them, to teach them a lesson. “You,” the king said, pointing to one of the clerics in the middle. “Step forward.” Clenching his hands to keep them from trembling, he did as instructed. “Closer,” Milo said, even managing a tight grin as he summoned him with a curled finger.
“Yes, my Lord,” the cleric responded in a tight rasp when he stepped right up to the king.
Milo leaned down, his mouth so close to the cleric’s ear that he could feel the warm breaths pulsing against his face. “Today, you will be the one to nail him up,” the king whispered.
“W–What?”
“Take the hammer and nail your brother to the cross. I will not repeat myself.”
“My Lord, please, I can’t. You can’t ask me to—”
The king grabbed him by the collar and slung him down near the soldiers’ feet. “Nail them both up,” the king said, the order given casually as if it were purely an afterthought.
“Wait! Wait!” he cried, throwing his hands up in anticipation. But the blow he feared never came. The surrounding soldiers just looked down on him, some even smiling at the terrified weakling. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it,” he wailed, crying shamelessly as he rolled onto his back, covering his face with both hands.
“Of course you will,” the king said, motioning to the man with the hammer and spikes. He in turn threw them down near the cleric’s head and went back to stand near the soldiers. The crowd watched on in stunned silence. Normally they would be cheering on an execution, but this one felt strange. In truth, no one wanted to draw any attention to themselves for fear of finding themselves on the wrong side of the king’s rage. These were his own clergymen being punished. No peasant was going to be arrogant enough to think he might above the king’s wrath.
The cleric took the hammer and spikes, then crawled towards his friend on his hands and knees. Already tied, the prisoner had regained full consciousness and began to thrash against his bindings. “No!” he screamed, the ropes creaking against his wrists with each futile tug. “Bently, you can’t do this! Please!”
I’m sorry, the cleric mouthed, lining up the first spike over his friend’s wrist. Mumbling a silent prayer, he dropped the hammer down. A feeble attempt, the spike did little more than scratch his friend’s wrist as it slipped off to the side. But from the way he shrieked, one might have suspected the prisoner had just gotten his hand cut off.
“I’m sorry,” the cleric said again, nearly a shout this time. He lined up the spike and struck again, more forcefully this time. The spike bit into his wrist, probably no more than a quarter inch.
The next hour was more of the same as the clumsy cleric slowly completed the task. Not a strong man physically, it was a long grind for the cleric to get the spikes through flesh and bone, and then ultimately into the wood behind them. Mercifully, as the shock began to set in, the cleric had stopped screaming nearly a half hour prior. Wide-eyed, his head simply rolled back and forth with each hammer strike, his mind clearly somewhere else.
Covered with sweat from the grueling task, the quivering cleric finally rose up off his knees. Eyes bloodshot, cheeks streaked with tear tracks, his fa
ce was as white as a ghost. He would probably never sleep again after such a nightmarish task.
“Good,” the king said, summoning the poor man forward. Hearing the creaking ropes behind him as they hoisted up the cross, the cleric slowly moved towards the king. Mouth open, feet dragging one after the other, he looked as if he had been drugged.
Resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, the king led him over to the other clerics. By now the townsfolk had largely dissipated. No one wanted to see what their unpredictable king might do next.
“I would like to think that a lesson has been learned today,” the king began, still hugging the cleric’s shoulder as if they were drinking buddies sitting in a tavern. “As I told you all before, I will not tolerate these constant failures. I have had it with your excuses. My irritation grows with each passing day that I do not have my shaman back. You will double your efforts starting immediately. Is that clear?” Heads bobbed all around. “Good.” He released the cleric’s shoulder, but spun him around to face him directly. “Do you understand why I had you carry out the execution?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” he mumbled, even though he didn’t. He just wanted to be out of the king’s sight as soon as possible.
“Because you are now the next one in line,” the king explained. “I needed you to see firsthand what such an end must be like. I wanted you to smell his fear, to see his terror with your own eyes.” He grinned. “If you do not wish that fate on yourself, I suggest you find some way to motivate the others.” He turned back to the clerics and pointed to one trying particularly hard not to be noticed. “And you,” he said as the cleric’s head jerked up, “will be the one who nails him up. Then guess who will be next in line for execution?” He clapped his hands together. “Now get back to work and bring back my shaman.”
Chapter 11
The elegantly decorated room seemed to radiate with the jumbled murmur of laughter and idle chitchat. Raised wine glasses clinked in silent toast as the violinists played a slow, low-key melody. The soft background music set the perfect atmosphere for yet another one of Lord Alaric Bournfred’s parties.
As usual, the elites of Redwater didn’t particularly need a reason to celebrate themselves. Normally, only the privileged and powerful were allowed to enter these halls, but today’s festivities were a little different than usual. For the sake of image, Alaric thought it might be best to widen the social gap a bit. He wanted to prove he could relate to the common folk, as well as those of his own status. Appearances were always important, but more recently this proved to be especially true.
Ever since Liam’s less-than-ceremonious departure, it seemed as if Alaric had been fighting an uphill battle to stay relevant in the eyes of the people. Clearly, he had underestimated the level of respect commanded by his former mystic. And that respect seemed to have gone right along with him. Everywhere he turned, he swore he heard whispers of how they wished Liam would come back, of how they wanted Alaric to step down for the good of the people. Of course, those working for him assured him it was all in his head, and that those few angry folks did not speak for everyone.
No matter. Let them think what they will. Liam could never be half the man I am, and sooner or later the people will finally see that. Alaric took a long gulp from his glass, draining the last of his wine. “Yes, they will see,” he mumbled under his breath, rocking back a step before steadying himself against the wall behind him.
His vision a bit fuzzy, he eyed his room full of guests suspiciously. He didn’t really trust anyone these days, let alone this mix of commoners present today. “Farmers, field workers,” he spat. Who talked me into inviting these useless peasants? What was I thinking? I should have them searched when these leave to make sure they didn’t steal any of my silverware. A firm believer in status segregation, just the looks of some of these folks disgusted him.
“You there!” Alaric said, pointing a finger across the room. His sudden shout drew quite a bit of attention as several heads turned at once. “Yes, you.” A young girl pointed to her chest, forcing her cringe to look like a smile. Her heart sinking, she cursed her own luck and made her way across the room.
“Yes, my Lord,” she said, dropping into a shallow curtsy while dipping her head to the side.
“Haven’t I seen you around here before?” he asked, staring down at her cleavage while making no attempt to hide it.
“I don’t believe you have, my Lord,” she replied, resisting the urge to tug up the front of her dress. Shifting her shoulders forward, she lowered her chin as far as she could, wishing she could just run away from this awkward exchange. “This is my first visit to the keep. I’m here with my father.” She emphasized father, hoping that would be enough to dissuade Lord Alaric from taking this any further. So far, the man was living up to his reputation.
“I see,” he said, his eyes finally flashing up to meet hers briefly. “And does this lovely flower have a name?” His eyes fell back down the front of her dress before even finishing the question.
“Gwen,” she mumbled, shifting her feet nervously. Only a fool couldn’t see how uncomfortable she was.
“Gwen,” he repeated softly. “A lovely name for a lovely girl.” He took her by the hand and led her towards the center of the room. “Shall we dance, Gwen?” he asked, his arms already wrapped around her waist. A nervous laugh squeaked past her lips as they swayed from side to side. She found herself constantly pushing her hips back to keep his body from rubbing up against her. As if the situation weren’t already awkward enough, they were the only ones dancing. With what seemed like a hundred sets of eyes all staring at them, she felt completely helpless.
As they danced alone, Alaric kept pulling her closer until their bodies were flush. She wanted to cry, to break free of his grasp and run away, but none of these things were an option. Lord Alaric ran this city, and disobeying him in any way was ill-advised, to say the least. She had heard the stories, even met a few of the victims herself. She knew what this horrible man was capable of. Just one dance. I can do this. Just one and then it’s over.
His hand slid up from her waist. Assuming no one could see because their bodies were so close together, he firmly cupped the side of her breast. She pushed him back in disgust. But he quickly snatched her by the wrists, pulling her right back into him.
Covering her mouth with one hand to keep from crying, she looked around for the first time since being dragged out onto the empty dance floor. Those stares she hoped she had imagined were all too real, but they were not taunting or amused in any way as she feared. No one was laughing at her. They were looks of pity and sadness. Many looked away in helpless shame when she made eye contact. After all, what could they do to help?
“My Lord.” Alaric paused, releasing the girl temporarily in order to hurry up and deal with this annoying intrusion. There stood a man with short brown hair, wringing his hat nervously with both hands. Wearing a vest that was far too small, he looked as if he had thrown his fancy attire together at the last minute. Or perhaps he just borrowed the ill-fitting clothes. “Please, forgive my intrusion, but I fear a mistake has been made.” The girl looked at him with pleading eyes, shaking her head ever so slightly. “I see you have met my youngest daughter, Edyln.”
Alaric turned towards the girl. “Edyln, you say? Did you not tell me your name was Gwen?” She forced a smile, her lips shifting about wordlessly as she struggled to find her voice.
“Er... My Lord,” the man cut in, trying to draw attention away from his daughter. “I mean no disrespect, but if I may be so bold.” He cleared his throat. “She is but a young girl. Can you not see that for yourself?”
“Father!” she grunted through her teeth, her eyes going wide before rolling towards Alaric. Sure she was frightened. And yes, she would do just about anything to get away from this man, but not at risk to her own father. She could handle herself.
“Sir, I find your actions to be most inappropriate,” the man said, raising his chin while folding his arms across his
chest. A father could only take so much. “I think it is time Edyln and I took our leave. But before we do, I should like to hear you apologize to–”
“Hinlor,” Alaric cut him off, shaking a finger knowingly while scratching his chin with the other hand. “Sen Hinlor.” What little courage the man had built up suddenly fled from his body. Deflating, he dropped his arms, shoulders slouching. He certainly didn’t expect to be recognized. “Do you know why you received an invite to the keep in the first place?” Sen said nothing, now feeling as helpless as his daughter had a moment ago. “Your taxes, Sen. You are late. And I personally find that to be most inappropriate.” Alaric raised his shoulders and let them drop, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “I had hoped we could speak privately about this unfortunate misunderstanding, but it seems you are a most impatient man. I suppose we shall have to do this right now.”
“But my Lord,” Sen spoke up, able to find his voice at last. “I am only two months behind. As you are no doubt already aware, this year’s harvest was rather substandard. Yet I still managed to—”
“Only two months?” Alaric mocked, his ear-to-ear grin proving just how much he enjoyed watching this poor man squirm. Interrupting his fun came at a price, and that price would be paid one way or another. He stepped towards the farmer and slung an arm around his shoulder, giving him his undivided attention. “Tell me, Sen, if I were to plunge a knife into your chest one thousand times,” he curled his other hand as if holding a handle, then made several stabbing motions directed at the farmer’s chest, “would it really be so different than just stabbing you once? I mean, are there really varying degrees of dead?” Whimpering softly, the farmer shook his head.
“Well, of course not,” Alaric said, shoving him back while trying to make it appear playful. “So then, why bother telling me how late you are? Late is late, Sen. A day...a year...it makes no difference, correct?” Again the sniveling farmer shook his head. He felt foolish, thinking he could ever stand up to Lord Alaric. Even his daughter had tried to warn him back.
