Chosen (Dark Powers Rising Book 3)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Heads nod and there is consensus at the table. “What would you have us do Father Baxter?”

  “She must face execution, but by the sword rather than the noose.”

  Hushed mumbles as they talk among themselves, heads bent low. “We grant you that respect Father Baxter. The Executioner has been summoned. We will instruct him accordingly.”

  He nods to them in solemn appreciation and sits back down.

  The judge turns to face me, to deliver their verdict. Stern. Unforgiving.

  “Meriall Baxter you have been sentenced to death by the sword. God has no mercy for traitors,” he lifts the mallet smacks it down for the final time. “Take her down.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back in the cell, I look out of the window at the street. If these are to be my final hours I don’t want to spend them looking at the strained faces of Wilim and Robart, or the grimy white-washed walls of the cell. A familiar red jacket across the square catches my eye. Such an unusual colour here where everything is black and white or drab. The man in the jacket is tall with a greying beard and carries a large sack slung across his back. He’s not an Elect or an Enforcer nor a guard and he doesn’t bear the marks of Primitive ownership. A free man? As he crosses the square, I notice that other people move out of his way, not from courtesy, but quickly, as though he is contagious with disease. A teenager tags behind him, the cuffs of his jacket also red.

  Intrigued I call to the other prisoners, “Wilim, Robart. Come look. Who are these men—the ones with red coats?”

  Wilim comes to the window. “Oh. That is Franz and his apprentice. He’s the executioner. The apprentice is his son.”

  His words are a punch to my stomach. Seeing Franz makes it all the more real. In the cell I am safe. Out there, in the square, is where they will finally get me.

  “Why are they all moving away from him as he walks?”

  “They’re afraid of him. Bit of an outcast—given his trade,” he says, as if that explains everything.

  “He’s the one that does their dirty work for them—they think they’re above getting their hands bloodied these days,” Robart adds.

  “Who?” I ask, “the Elect?”

  “Yeh, before they’d kill people themselves, but since they’re so high and mighty now they’ve got their own personal executioner,” Wilim answers. “He doubles up as a torturer too. Quite the expert they say—can set bones right so they can still walk to the noose.”

  Franz and his son continue walking across the square towards us and stop to inspect the gallows. The older man pushes at the structure as if testing it for stability and turns to talk to his son, then both continue to walk in the direction of the Magistrate’s Court.

  “I think they’re coming here!” I say unable to keep the rising panic sounding in my voice.

  “No doubt,” says Wilim laconically. “They’ll be wanting to measure up.”

  “What, for a coffin?”

  “No, no love. We won’t be buried in no coffins. It’ll be a hole for us ‘tother side of town.” He flicks his head back as if pointing out the burial site. “No,” he adds, “for the ropes.”

  Minutes seem like hours before the door to the cell is opened and a guard steps into the cell. The executioner and his apprentice step in behind him. A look of dismay falls across his face as he notices me crouching in the corner, hands clasped tight around my knees. He shakes his head, turns to his son and mutters.

  “Such a shame.”

  I hadn’t expected sympathy from this feared and despised man and it is too much to bear. The pain and sadness stuck inside my belly rise up into sobs and I hide my face in my knees to stop the noise.

  A hand lays heavy on my shoulder. “I understand your fear, but please know that I’m here to make your passing easier,” Franz says with such compassion that I sob even harder into my jeans. “We’ll deal with the men first,” he says, turning to his son, “let her calm down a little.”

  How can a man whose trade is to bring about pain and death be so kind? Through the sobs, I hear shuffling and mumbling. I keep my eyes screwed tight, blocking out the sight of the preparations.

  “I will make sure that your death is swift.” His voice is loud now and I look up to see him crouching down next to me.

  “How can you be so kind?” I ask through my sobs.

  “I’m not a cruel man.”

  “No, but you kill and torture people. How can you do that and not be a monster?”

  He flinches at my words.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended. Most people assume I’m a born killer—they shun me, and my family—cross the road if they see we’re coming.”

  “I saw—when you walked across the square—I saw the people move out of the way.”

  “Yes,” he sighs with unhappy acceptance, “but this is a job I have been allocated and must carry out, as must my son Harris, my apprentice.”

  Harris can barely be above fifteen and I wonder how many men’s deaths he has already witnessed or brought about.

  “Now, listen. You are to be executed by sword. I will make it quick for you, but you must co-operate. There’s a block over which your neck must lay and for a clean cut you must stay still. I’ll help you to position it as best I can.”

  I should be terrified, instead a calmness descends upon me, as though his kind words have brushed away the fear and replaced them with acceptance.

  “I’ve finished here,” he tells the guards. “Bring the men,” he instructs, then turns to me. “The guards will collect you shortly Meriall.” He bows slightly and leaves.

  I have no words and sit, unable to move, as I wait for my final collection. I can’t think about death. I block out that thought entirely. Instead, in my mind I go through the motions of laying my head on the block, making sure it is in perfect alignment just as Franz has told me.

  Outside the noise of the crowd is getting louder as more people gather in the square. I peer out of the window into a bank of shoes, boots, trousers and skirts completely blocking my view to the gallows. Still, I peer through the legs, trying to catch a glimpse. My calves ache with the tension of standing on tip-toes. I stand down and turn my back to the wall. A quiet descends upon the crowd. It must be happening. A cheer rises. They’re cheering? They’re really cheering at the deaths of these men? Will they cheer when the sword drops for me too? I slide down to the floor, defeated, and wait for my turn. Tears come easily, silently. I want my last thoughts to be of Jey and Pascha and Mother and happier times. Footsteps sound in the walkway outside and I say a little prayer that Jey and Mother will be safe and that one day I will join Pascha in heaven. The key turns in the lock and I open my eyes, take a deep breath that fills my lungs and sends a wave of calm through me, then lift my head. Going out there with dignity will show them that nothing they do can break me. The door opens slowly and I am stunned.

  “You didn’t think we’d leave you here, did you?” Owin beams. My breath catches in my chest as a figure steps out from behind him. Pascha!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Words won’t come and I only gasp for air when the tightness in my chest reminds me to breathe as I stare in disbelief at Pascha.

  “You’re … you’re alive!” I manage to force out in a hoarse whisper, incredulous as I push myself up and away from the damp wall on trembling legs, a thousand butterflies beating in my heart.

  “Yes!” he replies smiling as he pushes past Owin and strides towards me, the green of his eyes bright against his dark lashes, and glistening with the tears that threaten to spill over them. In two strides he’s here and folds his arms around me. I fall into him, letting his strength envelope me, then cling to him, pressing my fingers down into his flesh to make sure that he is real and not a cruel figment of my tortured mind.

  “It’s you! It’s really you,” I sob as emotion overwhelms me and I squeeze him again, desperate to keep him crushed to me so that he can’t disappear.

>   “Yes, Merry, I’m real,” he says, his arms a circle of strength around me as my shoulders continue to heave. “Shh! I’m here. I’m here for you,” he soothes and strokes my hair.

  “I was so afraid, Pascha! I tried to believe … knew you couldn’t be dead … I’d know—I’d feel it here, if you were,” I sob, thumping gently at my heart, “but … but after Franz … after he talked to me, I wanted to be dead—to be with you.”

  “Shh! I’m here now. Nothing could stop me finding you, Merry. Nothing.” His voice is low with emotion as he holds me tighter still. The warmth of his breath soft on my cheek as he pushes his face into my hair. His lips brush gentle against my neck and then my cheek as he gives his love to me with his kisses. My soul returns them with a passionate need to lose myself in their softness.

  “I don’t want to break this up, kids,” Owin interrupts, “but we need to get out of here.”

  “Yes, we do,” Pascha agrees pushing me away gently though unwilling to release my arms, still holding my gaze. His green eyes stay locked on mine, hesitant to let me go, until a thud, then the crowd’s roar, sounds again from the gallows. Pascha frowns towards the high window of the cell. Owin shifts uneasy.

  “C’mon, then!” he whispers. “They’ll be coming for her any minute.”

  My stomach knots at his words.

  “We’re ready,” Pascha replies, the confidence strong in his voice as he takes my hand firmly and pulls me towards the door.

  At that moment, the unmistakable sound of jangling keys and heavy boots thudding along the corridors grows loud.

  “It’s too late! They’re coming for me,” I exclaim and squeeze Pascha’s hand tight.

  “Shh,” Owin reprimands, holding his finger to his lips as he steps out of the door the stops, head cocked to the side, listening to the noise. “They’re coming towards the door from the entrance hall. Once they get down here all hell’ll break loose if they catch us.”

  “Sanders will stop them,” Pascha suggests as he steps out of the cell.

  “Sanders? I thought he’d gone with the others up to Skarlton,” I say in confusion, as I follow him out, Mother and Jey suddenly upmost in my mind.

  “There’s no time to explain, and no, he won’t stop them. Not up there. It’s too risky,” Owin replies as footsteps grow louder as he assesses the dingy and haze-lit corridors of the basement with trained expertise. The handle on the door at the top of the stone steps, the only way out of here, begins to turn back.

  “Owin?” I hiss, frantic.

  “This way!” he says with authority, stepping away from me. “We’ll go deeper into the cellar.”

  The corridor ahead is dark with only a grey light pushing through a barred and grimy window high up on the wall. The door opens and heavy boots clat onto the stone steps just as we step into the dark shadows and press ourselves flat against the wall.

  “This should be interesting,” a rough voice says dryly as the boots continue their clat, clat, clat down the steps.

  “Hah! Blood thirsty lot aren’t they,” the other states without mirth.

  “Yeah! Practically baying for blood they are.”

  “Animals!”

  My muscles tense at their words. Standing behind Owin’s strong back as he peers down the corridor, gives me some small sense of protection, but their words run chill through my bones.

  “We can’t let them sound the alarm,” Pascha whispers almost inaudible from behind me.

  “Franz’ll make it quick,” the rough voice speaks again.

  “Oh? You’ve seen a head-chopping before then?” the other asks as they continue walking towards the door of my cell.

  “Yeah! Couple of years ago,” he says as the keys slide into the lock. “Sliced the head right off he did. One swipe and it was in the basket,” he adds with relish as the scrape of the handle turning scratches at the air. “I can still remember how the sun glinted off his sword as he sliced it through the ai-”

  The door opens.

  “What the! Where’s she gone?”

  “What do you mean, where’s she gone?” the softer-voiced guard asks as he steps into the cell.

  Owin is gone from me and runs with the lightest tread back along the corridor towards the talking men.

  “She’s not here!” is the guard’s startled reply from inside.

  I watch breathless as Owin grabs hold of the huge iron door handle, pulls the door to him and wraps his fingers around the key.

  “Hey!”

  “What the!”

  “C’mon,” Owin shouts back to us as he turns the key. The door is locked with a satisfying, metallic finality, trapping the guards inside.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The door rattles in its frame as Pascha pushes out from behind me, tapping my shoulder, urging me to move. Stepping out from the safety of the shadows I keep pace with him, immune from the guards’ threats, their shouts muffled behind the thick wood and solid walls of the cell. My only thought is to join Owin at the top of the stone steps and open the door to freedom. Adrenaline surges through me and I take the narrow steps two at a time reaching Owin within seconds.

  “Open the door, Owin,” I urge as I reach him, Pascha at my side, anxious to leave this prison behind.

  “Shh! Let me listen,” he replies.

  “Quick!” I say almost frantic with panic. “The others will hear them any second!”

  “Calm it Merry!” he reprimands, “I won’t let them hurt you,” he adds gently as he opens the door into a sunlit room.

  “No one will hear the guards from down there and there’s too much noise outside for them to be heard,” Pascha says, taking my hand as we step out into the hallway.

  “This way,” Owin beckons, leading us across the hall towards an open door where sunlight floods across the wooden floor.

  From the safety of the door I can see that the darkly panelled room is sparsely furnished, with just a long sofa along one wall and a large, ornately carved desk and chair sat facing the tall windows that look out onto the street. Behind the desk, the wide-mouthed fireplace sits cold, the huge gilt mirror above reflecting the scene outside: a backs of a hundred or more men and women shifting about the gallows. I suck my breath in hard and look back into the room. It seems empty bar the dust that dances in the warm sun streaming through the windows.

  “Where to now?”

  “To the caves,” a deep voice answers, stepping out from behind the open door.

  “Sanders!” I exclaim, surprised at how pleased I am to see him, my heart startled into beating hard.

  “Now then, Meriall,” he replies with a smile. “You’ve kept us on our toes!” he quips then turns without waiting for my answer. “Owin, there’s a room at the back. We’ll get ready there.”

  “Get ready?” I ask confused.

  “Yeah! Come this way,” Owin replies as he steps towards Sanders.

  “Sanders! Mother and Jey? Are they safe?” I blurt, unable to hold my anguish in any longer.

  “You don’t need to worry,” he says, stopping and turning to look at me, a gentle kindness in his eyes, the blonde of his hair catching in the sunlight, the black lines of Primitive ownership pale against his skin. I want to reach up and rub at them until the black fades to grey then disappears. “They’re on their way up to Skarlton—with Nathaniel,” he continues. “They’ve got Jasper and Tobias with them too remember?” A surge of relief waves through me at his words. Knowing that they’re safe feels like a burden lifted. “What we need to worry about now, is getting out of here.”

  “Sure,” I reply, stepping forward, “but how? There’s a whole crowd of people out there,” I add nodding my head back towards the tall windows.

  “Exactly!” he replies

  “We’ll escape in plain sight,” Owin adds.

  “In plain sight?” I repeat incredulous, the fear rising to bite at me again.

  “Yes,” he replies, his face serious, his voice confident. “We won’t be noticed among the crowd Merial
l. Not once you’ve got this on,” he adds holding up a coarse canvas bag. “But we can’t stand here chatting about it.”

  “No, we’ve got about sixty seconds before someone realises the main act is missing. That crowd’s starting to get restless,” Owin adds gravely, looking through the tall windows out into the street.

  I follow his gaze. The end of the gallows is just visible, cut by the frame of the window. The crowd is thick, but beyond their backs and above their heads a rope hangs heavy and still. At the end of the rope, tight against the coil of the knot, is a mop of thick dark hair. Wilim!

  “Rest in peace beloved, where pain and suffering can’t reach you,” Pascha recites softly as he squeezes my hand. I’m thankful for him.

  “What was that?” Owin asks, looking at Pascha as he finishes the prayer learned from his father.

  “Just something we say for the dead,” he replies, with a sorrow that I know runs deep.

  “Thank you Pascha,” I say turning to him, “Wilim and Robard—they were good to me—even though they knew it was the end for them,” I add remembering the black humour of their banter as we waited in the cell, listening to the hammering of metal on wood as the gallows were assembled. “They didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “No, Probably not,” is Owin’s tight reply as he looks out into the street to the gallows. “Sanders, let’s get these kids sorted out,” he says turning quickly from the scene with a deep breath.

  Sanders nods back in agreement and gestures to the open door.

  “I thought we were going out into the crowd?” I ask confused as Owin and Pascha walk over the threshold and into the room beyond.

  “We are, but not looking like that,” he says nodding at me with his eyes wide.

  “Like what?” I ask confused.

  “Just follow me,” he replies smiling and reaches for the door handle, “and be quick about it.”