The High King sighed. “You assured me the royal line of Massi would end in the war, and now I come to find that the youngest Prince escaped to Noble. Word has also reached me that he’s escaped two more bungled attempts on his life!” he said tersely, starting in a low voice but gradually ending in a roar.
Arsinol cursed silently, acutely aware of Ja Brude wringing his hands beside him.
“This cannot get out,” Mastoc said still quite loudly. “Fear of my Knights will only go so far. If the Toranado and the Palmerrio ever aligned themselves…” he left the consequences unsaid, although everyone in the room knew that while the Knights were the elite force in the land, their numbers were their weakness. There were just not enough of them to subdue all the kingdoms of the Inland Sea.
“The rumors must end,” King Mastoc said with finality.
“We could send a message to Sinis,” Arsinol interjected. “We know he has fled to Lato.”
Mastoc shook his head. “I would not trust this with those assassins,” he answered, meaning the Executioners, “braggarts all. Their tongues would wag for sure. No, I will send Captain Hothgaard. He will know what men to choose for such a delicate mission.”
“You are aware,” Arsinol began, pausing to lick his lips. His mouth was suddenly dry, “that the boy is studying with Tar Nev.”
Arsinol forced himself not to drop his eyes as those of the High King latched on to him. The High King’s anger grew at the mention of his former Weapons Master.
The Traitor! Mastoc thought, his face going red. The High King stared down at Arsinol for what seemed an eternity to the Deutzani King, his eyes boring into him. Finally Arsinol could take no more and glanced to his daughter, the Queen. She had a small smile on her face, as if she enjoyed watching his discomfort. There was no light or mercy in her eyes.
“I will send Hothgaard to deal with the boy; Nev can wait,” Mastoc eventually said, when he felt he could master his voice.”
“You begin to prepare for the invasion of Toranado if we fail,” the High King added.
Arsinol’s head flew up. “Invasion…of Toranado?”
The High King nodded and gave a slow smile. “Use the money you are stealing from the Massi.”
Arsinol blanched and then answered. “It cannot be done,”
The King studied him a moment. “It may well have to be, if either of us is to survive this.”
ǂ
Tar Navarra gazed through the small window of his cabin as the ports of Solarii slowly approached. A week had past since the end of the Competitions. A storm had hit the day after the final ceremonies and travel by trireme had been delayed. But even when the worst of the storm had past, the sky did not clear. Even now it was raining light and steady, the clouds low, gray and uniform, covering the earth like an old wool blanket. The weather matched Navarra’s mood. He was still stewing about Arsinol’s summons to the King’s Island and his own dismissal. He didn’t like be excluded, but he had little choice, only those invited dared to step foot on the High King’s Island. Executioners were not immune to death. So he sat in his cabin and waited, thinking about the Prince of Massi. Navarra was not surprised the boy had somehow managed to defeat B’dall, even though the later was this year’s best with katas. Navarra had faced Gwaynn personally and knew his skill was growing rapidly. He did, however, think that the odds were still with B’dall; after all, he had been training on Noble almost constantly for the last eight years. Noble, apparently, wasn’t everything.
Navarra blinked, the ship was fast approaching land. Standing on the dock was Sergeant Lindsay, patiently waiting for him. The Executioner’s curiosity peaked and he stood and went out onto the deck and into the rain.
Lindsay raised a hand in greeting that Navarra did not return. He merely waited impatiently until the ship was tied off and the gangplank was finally lowered. The Executioner was the first person off.
“I have news,” Sergeant Lindsay said by way of greeting. Navarra said nothing, just waited.
“It seems that Afton Sath’s late wife had some relatives near the town of Millvale,” the Sergeant hurried already aware of his superior’s foul mood.
Navarra raised an eyebrow.
“And the two made frequent visits to the hot springs nearby during the final years of her life.”
Navarra waved his hand, signaling Lindsay to get to the point.
“Thomas Fultan was her brother,” he finally said, and Navarra felt the air run out of his lungs.
“The Fultan’s,” he whispered and his first thought was of the eldest daughter, the one with the hair like fire and earth. What was her name? Ah, Samantha, yes. Then his thoughts strayed to the little one and his face darkened. He had been deceived by a child, and a very, very young one at that.
“Take the men. Pay a visit to the Fultan’s. Kill the servants but secure the family and wait for my arrival. I have matters to attend to, but I won’t be more than a half day behind you. If all goes well I should arrive tomorrow about mid-day.”
Lindsay nodded smiling, very glad that he was not a Fultan.
ǂ
On Lato, Gwaynn was surprised that he was completely at ease with his surroundings and the longer he stayed on the island the more he was being seduced by its people and their philosophy of learning. He was sure if his father would have sent him here as a child he would have grown up very happy, but now, that was not to be. He’d spent the past week with Elise, Kent and a host of other students and teachers. He followed them about learning bits and pieces of a dozen different subjects. He learned more about the history of the planet than he believed was possible. Through the telescope at the Observatory, he viewed the mountains and valleys of the moon, plus the planet Jupiter, its largest moons and the rings of Saturn. An entire new world of peace and learning was opening for him, yet everywhere he went he carried his kali. No one thus far tried to take them from him.
It was not until his eighteenth day on the island that he began to spar again with Nev, and even then he did so gingerly, favoring his left leg. They practiced in a closed gym sanctioned by Master Putal himself, who approved the place upon his return from the Competitions. On the days they manipulated time, Nev would bring large sacks of fruits, cheese and bread.
Gwaynn quickly improved his control, but he was still having difficulty succeeding while under the extreme duress of one of Nev’s attacks. Nev on the other hand could move from one point to another with seeming lightning speed even under the most determined attack.
“You seem to be adjusting well to life of Lato,” Nev said as they stood a few feet apart, circling slowly and panting from the effort. Nev studied the young man’s movements carefully; Gwaynn was beginning to push him, something he had thought impossible just a year ago.
Gwaynn nodded. “I like it here. I like the pe…” he stopped talking as he attacked furiously, striking high, then low, left and right in a seemingly random pattern. It took nearly all of Nev’s skill to parry the blows.
“You should not stop talking before you attack,” Nev said and in the middle of the admonishment slowed time and jumped from before Gwaynn to behind. Nev knew the move was too fast for the eye to follow, at least in normal time. But somehow, Gwaynn managed to drop and block the blow intended for the back of his right shoulder and then he struck out so quickly at Nev’s shins that the older man had to skip back awkwardly.
Gwaynn stood, still coming, but Nev held up a hand, laughing. “I need to eat.”
“You told me never to use time unless it was to end a fight or run from one,” Gwaynn scolded.
Nev laughed all the more, though he had to bend at the waist as the hunger cramps hit him. “I used it to end the fight; you just blocked the killing blow. No one else could have done such a thing.”
Gwaynn shrugged.
“It’s not natural,” Nev added.
This time Gwaynn laughed. “What is natural?” he asked becoming serious. “Master Jann says that with each decision we make we create a New World. She says life is like t
he branches of a tree, and we decide where the branches grow. She even suspects that in every decision we face we also create other realities. Each reality is anchored in our decisions. Each different decision means a different reality. She claims that there are an infinite number of realities all marching along next to ours, some are almost indistinguishable from the one we live in, while others may be radically different, depending on the scale of the decisions.”
Nev nodded. “Yes, so Galen has said. Sounds intriguing, does it not.”
“I think I like the idea of a reality where Gwynn is still alive, a reality where I’m still whole,” Gwaynn said, and took a bite from a date.
Nev sat quietly for a moment considering. Yes, it was a very comforting thought. “I think I may have to meet this Master Jann,” he finally said.
Gwaynn smiled again. “You’d like her. Her hair may be bushier than yours.”
Nev nodded again, but uncharacteristically remained somber.
“Don’t become too attached to this place,” he finally said and Gwaynn’s smile dropped from his face. Nev regretted driving it away. Gwaynn smiled so little.
“It may not be good for the people of Lato if we stayed over long,” he added.
Gwaynn sighed, but said nothing, and after a moment ate another date.
ǂ
Tar Navarra rode up the lane to the house. Kronos, his mount, kept to a slow walk and Navarra did nothing to speed him up. Today he was Death, the Black Horseman himself. And death should never hurry. He knew the family would be watching, dreading his arrival and his slow approach would be excruciating. Sergeant Lindsay was waiting out front with the other men; the Fultan’s were all trussed up tight, all on their knees, facing his way. The servants were swinging gently from the large oak tree out front, their hands tied behind their backs. Navarra smile inwardly, as Sergeant Lindsay rode out to meet him.
“He’s gone to Koshka,” the Sergeant informed him. “He spent several nights here then moved on. The middle girl broke just before we hung Murl…the cook.”
“Koshka,” Navarra said slowly, letting the word roll off of his tongue. He rode to the opposite side of the oak and dismounted as if he didn’t have a care. He had never heard of the town, but as he moved slowly down the family’s line he knew he would soon have all the answers. He studied them closely. The little girl watched him with wonder, the middle girl kept her head down and from the look and smell of her; she’d urinated on herself sometime earlier. Navarra crinkled his nose. Thomas likewise had his head down. The only Fultan eyeing him with any life was the eldest daughter, her expression blazing. His heart skipped a beat when he looked into her eyes. She was just as alluring as he remembered, and the fact that she was facing death with courage made her even more so…at least in his eyes.
Navarra stopped before Thomas, who didn’t move. “Koshka?” he whispered to the man.
Thomas raised his head. “Yes, please. He went to Koshka to hide. He is an old man and has no heart for war.”
Navarra cocked his head and then turned to Sergeant Lindsay. “Where is Koshka?”
“Deep to the southwest, along the Scar Mountains, maybe fifty miles south of Manse,” he answered.
“You and the men get started now. Use all speed. If I do not catch up with you before you arrive, you may begin persuading the locals to reveal his whereabouts. I shouldn’t be more than a day behind you, however.” Navarra ordered…his blood suddenly hot in his veins.
“Now?” Lindsay asked, confused.
“Now,” Navarra confirmed, “at once.”
Sergeant Lindsay’s brows creased momentarily, but still he turned and ordered his men to prepare the mounts. Navarra walked over to Kronos and removed the block from the horse’s flanks and began to assemble it not far from the two swinging corpses. He moved slowly, wanting to draw this out. After a few moments Lindsay and the men assembled on horseback near the waiting family. Navarra looked up, nodded and they immediately moved out. The Executioner waited until they were well on their way and completely out of sight, then he turned. Only Samantha and the little girl were watching him. The middle girl…Arabelle he believed her name to be, was crying a bit harder now. Navarra smiled at the little one, and unbelievably, she smiled back at him. He walked slowly over and then behind her. He knelt down on one knee so that his face was directly behind her head. Her little arms were tied tightly behind her back and he watched for a moment as her small, red fingers wiggled about.
“Do you know who Uncle Afton Sath is today?” he whispered reaching out to cup her chin with one hand, and with his other he grabbed a handful of her pretty brown hair.
He felt her shiver. “Umhmm,” she mumbled an affirmative.
“And would you like a sugared biscuit?” he asked very softly.
She giggled.
“Good girl,” he said and with a quick jerk, pushed her chin one way, and pulled her hair in the opposite direction. Her neck snapped easier than he was expecting, and he twisted her face so far around that he was able to watch as her eyes rolled back in her head, showing only whites. Arabelle began to scream as he stood and pulled the little one by the hair. He dropped her at the base of the old oak. She landed with her head at an odd angle to the rest of her body, her white pupil-less eyes still twitching. He would rather have cut her head off, his preferred method of execution, but she was too small for the block. Arabelle, the screaming one however…
He moved in front of her and grabbed her by the hair. Her shrieks grew louder.
Music to my ears, Navarra thought and a small smile flittered across his face. He pulled Arabelle kicking and squirming across the yard. She fought surprisingly hard for such a little thing, and kicked him repeatedly in the shins until he lifted her head and slammed it down hard on the solid wooden block, stunning her. The girl groaned softly as he turned and maneuvered her head into a shallow depression and then he secured it tightly with a strong leather thong. He wrapped another thong quickly around her ankles a few times to hold her legs together and still. Once in place, with her hands tied behind her back, she was completely helpless. Her nose was bleeding slightly as he moved back to Kronos, and with great care unwrapped his axe.
He turned, enjoying the wild look in Arabelle’s eyes. As he approached she whimpered softly and began breathing in and out very rapidly. He knelt by her and brushed a lock of hair from her face. “It will be over very quickly,” he cooed. She just looked at him, her eyes going blank from shock. He sighed and stood, disappointed. He knew he would get no more reaction from her; once their fear reached a certain point the doomed shut down completely. He raised his axe, took a quick look back at Samantha. He smiled at her, and with a smooth practiced motion brought the axe down. It thumped loudly in the quiet morning air, and Arabelle’s body jumped and immediately fell away from her head.
‘A clean stroke,’ he thought with pride.
“Bastard!” Samantha yelled behind him. He turned, still smiling, and pointed to himself in surprise.
“Your turn is coming soon enough,” he replied, and pulled the headless body of Arabelle over and dropped her next to her younger sister, blood still flowing lightly from the severed neck. Next, he bent and began to arrange the body to his liking. He turned Arabelle on her back, then removed the thong at her ankles and spread her legs slightly. He then returned to the block and removed her head. He purposefully carried it by the hair letting the stump of the neck drag in the dirt just a bit and then he placed Arabelle’s head in the crotch of her legs so that her dead, blank face pointed past her feet and directly at the remaining two victims. He again brushed the hair out of the dead girl’s face, almost lovingly, then stood and turned.
Samantha said nothing, did not even look at him, rather her eyes remained fixed on the face of her dead sister, fascinated. Arabelle’s eyes seemed to stare right through her. She groaned and sucked up a bit of snot, only then realizing that she was crying.
The Executioner walked toward his two remaining victims and Samantha f
elt a wave of terror course through her body. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before and she felt as if she might faint. Instead, when the man was close enough she spat at him, hitting his pants. He ignored her, however, and with one hand grabbed her father by the hair and placed the other hand under his left shoulder and then pulled him to the block. Samantha watched stunned, as her father did nothing to try to stop the killer. He made no move to escape until his head was secured and then he strained at his bonds as if suddenly coming out of a dream, but by then it was too late. The Executioner tied his feet, and then moved to pick up the axe.
Tears flowed from Samantha’s eyes, blurring the scene. She blinked quickly, desperate to clear her vision, though why she could not have said.
“Please!” she shouted as loudly as she could when the Executioner picked up the huge, deadly looking axe. He turned, smiled at her again, and then with an effortless stroke, he cut her father’s head from his body. Samantha’s eyes were open, but she did not see the blood, did not see as the Executioner pulled her father’s body until it lay next to Arabelle’s, nor did she noticed as he placed the head so that her father too, was staring at her.
Samantha was no longer crying when she felt the Executioner grab her by the hair and begin to pull her to the block. He jerked her roughly from her knees and her body dropped violently down and she blinked from the pain in her scalp. Her face was just inches from the ground so that when she began screaming her breath blew up small puffs of dirt. She began to fight and squirm but no matter which way she turned the pain continued to grow. She felt certain her scalp would give away, but as suddenly as it had started the pain was gone. A strong hand gripped her by the neck and lifted her head and torso. When she saw the block beneath her she panicked again and kicked out, fighting now in earnest, but with her hands tied it was futile. As her head was forced down, Samantha screamed again, rage suddenly filling her. She could see and smell the blood left by her father and sister, but nothing she did seemed to matter and her head was soon in place. The dark wood of the block was cooler than she expected and actually felt good against the heat of her skin. She dimly felt the Executioner place a knee in the center of her back, holding her still as he tied the leather thong about her head, securing her in place. Once in position, Samantha felt truly helpless. Her head was held tightly, and she found herself focusing on the feel of the wet, warm blood of her family on her cheek. Her breathing was coming in rapid little gasps, which made her think of Arabelle. She could not turn her head and could only look one way. Unable to move, she stared at Murl’s dangling feet. The cook’s left foot was bare. Somewhere along the line she must have lost a shoe, and Samantha found her attention riveted by the toes of her former friend.
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