Blood and Chaos: The Collected Low Lying Lands Saga (The Low Lying Lands Saga)

by Bob Williams

  Turning, he continues. “Malcolm of the Protectorate Guard, I sentence you to death for the crimes you have committed against me personally. You are a lone wolf. A wild card. Taking your life tonight—”

  “This morning, ya jackass!” we all holler once again.

  “Ahem ... taking your life tonight ensures that you will never again use your rogue tactics to kidnap another Point of Light for your own selfish and perverted reasons.”

  There are numerous cat calls, woots, and claps of agreement that sound out from the crowd of now bloodthirsty participants. Now is the moment of no return, and my friends and I—Malcolm’s friends—can do nothing but watch.

  “What say you, Malcolm, to these charged levied against you?” asks Shen with cold-blooded disdain.

  “I am guilty. I will face my punishment under the under the terms we have previously agreed upon.”

  “Yes. Right. Under the terms we agreed upon. Of course.”

  “Shentaka, you must agree to abide by the terms of my surrender, and mean it, or this situation will get dramatically more messy. And say what you will; I can tell if you are lying.”

  “Fine. Fine!” cries Shen. “Malcolm, I will not harm your friends. Haven’t we been through this already? Can we please get on with this?”

  “Shentaka. Look at me,” Malcolm says sternly.

  “What? Look at you? Why?”

  “Look. At. Me.” Shen does. For about thirty seconds. I’m not sure; he may have been trying to look away but physically couldn’t. Once he’s locked eyes with Malcolm, apparently he is there until Malcolm chooses to let him go. Something we could’ve possibly taken advantage of if the situation wasn’t already mapped out.

  Malcolm is going to sacrifice himself for us, and there is nothing that is going to deter him. He is facing his demons head on, and paying the piper is his favored method. Not what I would’ve chosen, but then again, I’ve been called a selfish prick before. I haven’t known Malcolm very long, and yes, we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I will miss him, even if for only as long as it takes Shen to kill the rest of us. We’d have never taken down Kade without him.

  “Very well,” says Malcolm. “You are being truthful. You may proceed.”

  “I may proceed! Are you serious?” Shen rocks Malcolm with a left-right combination that is so fast I barely see it. I do see Malcolm’s head snap left then right, and he falls to the ground, landing hard on his shoulder before his face hits the unforgiving wood. Shen then adds two furious stomps to his back.

  Real fucking cool, asshole. Sucker punching a guy with his hands tied behind his back.

  “You don’t tell me what to do anymore, Malcolm! I make my own decisions. And I decide right here, right now, that you will DIE!”

  The frothy crowd becomes so infused with bloodlust that fights begin to break out within the assembly. If Shen doesn’t act quickly, he will literally lose the crowd to complete mayhem. The group of soldiers that contains Shields, Cole, Lexi, and me hunker down to protect us. It’s odd to suddenly be shielded from violence by the very same people who said they couldn’t wait to see us suffer and die.

  Out of the madness comes the deafening whistle Shen blew earlier to call the Freak brigade to action. We all cover our ears in agony and wait for the miserable sound to stop. Within seconds, everybody is either hunched over or lying on the ground, writhing. I’m guessing this particular whistle was designed for short bursts or some shit, but this freakishly long toot could be the end of us all. The sounds die right before I feel like I might piss blood.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Shen shouts. “I brought you here. I have touched you all. I have given you a gift. And in my finest hour, when everything I have worked for is about to come to fruition, you people want to fuck it up. I will not stand for this. Not NOW! Do you understand me?”

  Murmurs from the crowd. The air is still fraught with tension and Freak testosterone.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t hear you,” Shen sneers. “Do you understand me!”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes, WHAT?”

  “YES, ADMIRAL SHEN!”

  “Very well. Now calm the fuck down, shut up, and watch. You’re not going to want to miss this.” He looks like a kid on Christmas morning who has just opened the last present, and it’s what he’s been waiting for all along.

  Malcolm. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  Do not be, Prescott. As you of all people would say, I’ve made my bed. Now I must lie in it.

  It wasn’t supposed to go like this. We were supposed to go around kicking Freak ass for a long time. We got one guy.

  You mustn’t look at it like that. Kade was the epitome of evil. We defeated him. You may yet walk away from this. I guarantee you, help is on the way. Not in time for me, but very likely in time for you and the team. I feel confident that you will live to fight another day, Prescott. And this ... help that’s coming. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. Hold out, Prescott! Fight! Ignite the night and inspire your team to survive. It’s been an honor to fight alongside you, regardless for how long. Goodbye, my friend.

  The honor was mine. The feeling is mutual. This is going to hurt, isn’t it?

  Yes.

  “To the untrained in Higher Grounds affairs, you may be wondering,” Shen says, “how exactly does one go about lynching an angel? And not just any old angel. An angel of the Protectorate Guard.”

  “Nope. Never wondered that at all. Shields? Have you wondered that”? I ask rather loudly.

  “No. I sure haven’t. Michael?”

  “What’s a Protectorate Angel?”

  “Silence!”

  Prescott. Please. Let it go. Do not attempt to prolong the inevitable. The assistance coming is for you. This was always part of my plan. Stand down. I am asking you to please stand down.

  ... Okay.

  “Guys, Malcolm says stand down.” They do.

  “Angels of the Protectorate Guard are of a most unique breed,” says Shen. “Once they complete the training and go through all of the bullshit ceremonies, their ‘angelic DNA’ is altered. So while an ordinary angel, and even a fallen angel like myself, are hard to kill, Protectorate angels are just that much harder to put down.

  “Thankfully, though, what can only be described as the single dumbest decision in the history of both the Protectorate Guard and the Higher Grounds, Malcolm stole the only weapon capable of killing him—and HE GAVE IT TO ME!” The crowd roars with applause and whistles.

  “Now, this weapon is a knife. A dagger, actually. It’s called the Rohan Dagger. I will not bore you with its history, but suffice to say it was forged by the Superior himself and placed under the protective watch of the Protectorate Senior Council, or a more apt title would be ‘A Confederacy of Dunces.’

  “This weapon, the Rohan Dagger, is here on my person and has been since I left Tiffin and landed here in Columbus. However, you may now recognize that it looks different from its original likeness.”

  I stare hard at the dagger that still resides in its sheath and notice right away what he’s getting at.

  He turns and gestures to Rebecca, who stands off to the side on the stage with Shen. “With the help of my right-hand maiden, we were able to craft a very special surprise for Malcolm for when he inevitably showed his face. Rebecca, will you show the good people what we created?”

  “With pleasure, Master,” Rebecca answers, a very large smile spreading across her face. She journeys to the back end of the gallows stage where a black safe sits.

  How the fuck did I miss that?

  Rebecca takes a few seconds to turn the combination handle a quick left-right-left, and then tugs downward on the large metal handle. The door swings open. Rebecca reaches in and, I presume, was going to grab whatever was inside, but she actually pulls out a pair of thick, padded gloves with an outer coating of chainmail. She struggles a bit to put the gloves on, but in the end s
he does and shows them to the crowd. They ooh and ah.

  She then reaches back into the large safe and pulls out a lasso of bright yellow rope, twice as thick as the one used on Curt Woolever and Cole. She brings the rope down to the front of the platform, being very careful to not let the rope touch anywhere but the gloves she’s wearing, and hands it to Shen. He can, of course, hold the rope without concern. I know why. I’m sure he’s about to tell the others.

  “This rope was acquired for one purpose only. For the lynching of this abomination to my left. However, a thicker rope is not enough, so this rope has been infused with a true killing device.”

  He removes the dagger and holds it by the blade to show the crowd what I already saw. The handle is nothing but steel. The hilt and the nub of the handle remain, but the leather binding on the handle is missing.

  “The Rohan Dagger in its entirety is a divine instrument. Therefore it is not just the blade which can kill, but any part or accessory may do the same. For the perfect design, Rebecca has woven the leather binding from the handle into this industrial rope.

  “This will be the single most agonizing, terrifying, and painful misery you will ever experience, Malcolm. And I, for one, will truly enjoy it.” He directs several of the Freaks who stand on the stage to remove the old rope and run the new. They quickly carry out the task with youthful excitement. They don’t appear to know exactly what to expect, but I can tell they know they’re in for a show.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Please lead Malcolm to the designated spot and await my orders.”

  Malcolm is led across the stage and stands so that, from my angle, his face shows right through the tight round circle of the noose. This industrial rope they are using has no give.

  Shen approaches Malcolm and stands beside him, like Pontius Pilate with Jesus Christ. “Quiet down, quiet down.” The nervous energy in the crowd is electric, but the Freaks quiet immediately.

  “Is there anyone in attendance tonight, besides these low-lyer scumbags, that would present a case for a stay of execution?” Five seconds elapse too soon.

  “Great! Let us begin. For the last time, Malcolm, I sentence you to death for crimes against the honor of the Matsuri family, first and foremost. But your sentence also includes numerous ...” Shen pauses. It’s as if he has a frog in his throat.

  Is he getting choked up?

  “... Fuck it. Put the noose around his neck and tighten it as hard as you can.” This is it. Malcolm is going to die and there is nothing we can do to stop it. The help isn’t going to make it in time. This is going to be horrible.

  The instant the noose touches his skin, it sears it, and smoke rises. Malcolm is obviously doing his best to internalize the pain. I believe his goal is to not give Shen any satisfaction from his suffering. I’m not sure how long he can hold out. The hangman cinches the noose tight around Malcolm’s neck and gives a look to Admiral Shen. He never once mentions his burning hands.

  Shen watches intently as Malcolm struggles to not scream. Malcolm’s shoulder movements reflect that he’s trying to free his hands. I can tell in a short time he’ll free his hands, but it will be too late.

  “I hope you rot in Hell, Malcolm!” Shen says viciously before giving the nod to pull the lever. The hangman does as instructed, and for the third time in one night, I see someone drop through the trapdoor. I know this time, like the first, there will be no rescue.

  Shields embraces me and can’t bear to look. Cole has closed his eyes as well. It’s evident after only a few moments Malcolm can’t see us anyway. The rope cinches taut after the short drop, and the leather binding from the Rohan Dagger begins to dig into his skin with every thrust, squirm, or movement of any kind.

  From the contact of the noose on his neck, a disgusting gray, ashen burn spreads in every direction. Suddenly Malcolm lets forth the most chilling scream I’ve ever heard. I am pretty sure it will haunt me for the rest of my life. His arms burst free of their restraints and rip at the shirt he wears. Buttons fly as he sheds the shirt, and an acrid steam rises from numerous regions of his body. He then digs his finger under the rope and begins to struggle with it, which in turn scorches his hands. But he continues to grab at the rope.

  His veins turn black as night, and the dagger’s magic works its way through his body, literally boiling him from the inside out. His body appears to be covered in a black spiderweb that crawls up the veins in his neck and across his face. They also extend downward through his chest and arms.

  Malcolm continues to scream. His suffering is unimaginable. Shields, Cole, Lexi, and I all watch at this point. We will not let our friend die alone. Lexi howls down in her throat.

  He’s been struggling for nearly two minutes when we witness his last gasp. With a tremendous effort, due to his body being covered in what can only be described as worse than third-degree burns, he grabs the rope with both hands right at the point of his Adam’s apple and squeezes. He sobs in pain and howls in agony, but I see what he’s doing.

  The rope is being singed away, as he has essentially been burning it since he was dropped. He is trying to speed up the process. It’s working, but he is fading. It’s approaching three minutes since the lever was pulled, and time has nearly run out.

  With his hands covering the rope, it’s impossible to tell what kind of success he is having, but alas, it doesn’t matter. He stops struggling and finds me down at the front of the stage. We lock eyes. I stare intently at him.

  “What is it, Malcolm?” I say aloud, as if my voice is the pin you could’ve heard drop.

  Emily.

  The rope snaps and he drops several feet to the ground. Large sections of burnt flesh slide off his body as he flails momentarily in a heap of violent death.

  Shen beamed with joy, watching the entire process with pure ecstasy as his companion. But when the rope gives way and Malcolm drops to the ground below, his smile vanishes. He seems enraged. He walks over to the where the trapdoor hangs open and sees Malcolm’s dead body lying splayed out, torched and filthy.

  He stares down into that opening for what feels like an eternity before chilling all of us to the very core with one single word.

  “Again.”

  “What?” is all I can muster. “He’s fucking dead, Shen. What are you doing?”

  Malcolm is dead. There is no doubt about it. Shen is showing his true colors. It occurs to me in the moment to question how the fuck this shitbag had ever been a Point of Light.

  “Retrieve Malcolm and bring him back up to the stage, please,” says Shen.

  “But ... uh ... Master Shen, he’s dead. Burnt-to-a-crisp dead,” replies the hangman. Shen looks aghast. He walks the handful of paces to stand before the hangman.

  He places his hand on the man’s shoulder and says to him, “Stand still.”

  “Yes, of course, Master.”

  Shen rips the hangman’s shirt down the middle and tears it right off his body. He then proceeds to place his index and middle fingers on the man’s chest directly over his heart, and applies pressure. His fingers pierce the skin like a hot knife through butter, and the rest of his hand follows. He extracts the hangman’s heart, holds it in the one hand, and keeps him from falling over with the other.

  “It no longer matters to you,” says Shen, “but anyone else listening should do their best to accomplish any task given to them by me in the future. Without questions.” He drops the heart to the stage and stomps it flat with a disgusting splatter. Shen releases his grip, and the hangman’s lifeless body falls to the stage.

  “Now, will somebody please grab that crispy fucker and drag his ass back up here for another round? Rebecca? Please retrieve the other lasso of rope from the safe. It’s ready to go.”

  “You bet, Master!” she says. The look on her face as she gazes upon Shen is one of pure, unadulterated awe. I think she loves him. I think this act of vile deviance is right up her alley. She is loving every minute of it.

  “You motherfucker!” screams Cole. “You’ve won
. You have achieved your objective. There’s no need to do this. He’s dead.”

  “Tut tut, Mr. Cole. Name-calling will get you nowhere. But to your other statement, yes. I have won. And I will continue to win. And winners get to do whatever they want. Now kindly shut your mouth.”

  In the time it’s taken Cole to engage Shen, two Freak soldiers have run down under the stage, grabbed the charred corpse of Malcolm, and returned him to the stage. While retrieving Malcolm, the raw state of his body has caused both Freaks to break, and as such, one of the Freaks starts to gnaw on Malcolm’s arm. The other becomes enraged and attacks his partner. A Freak brawl has broken out on the stage. It feels like Shen might lose control of this situation if he isn’t careful. He has supposedly touched them, but that’d never really been explained, so I’m not sure how much power he had over the essence of Chaos and its raw violence.

  “No! Stop that this instant! Stop. Now!” The Freaks, covered in the blood of their own breaks, and also the gore of Malcolm, slowly come down off their bloodlust and return to Freak normal.

  Rebecca, who has gone and retrieved the rope with the special gloves, is waiting in the wings.

  “You dispshits ready to get back to work?” she asks. They are. The new rope is run in no time, since the nooses sitting in the safe were premade, and everyone waits with bated breath for ... what? They can’t know, but this kinda sick is unprecedented.

  The two soldiers, with some difficulty, holds Malcolm in a standing position while Rebecca cinches the second noose. Rebecca then leans in and whispers, “It’s been real, and it’s been fun. But it hasn’t been real fun. I gotta say, I expected more.”

  With none of the fanfare of the first time, Admiral Shen gives a curt nod to the hangman’s replacement, who then pulls the lever. Malcolm drops once again until the rope goes taut. Despite the fact that fact he is deceased, the noose continues to sear his neck. And smoke rises like from wet wood on a campfire.