by RW Krpoun
By the end of the day both Henri and Maximilian were exhausted and hoarse after examining a score of witnesses in addition to the trappers themselves, and presenting long and impassioned arguments. In the end all were found guilty, but in a surprise move the jury, swayed by Maximilian, spared one of the trappers who had been on guard duty, sentencing him to fifty lashes. The rest, of course, had received the death penalty, but all who watched agreed that not only was it an excellent spectacle, but that Maximilian had done a fine job to save even one of the band.
The hanging, on the following Market Day (the eighth and last day of the week, traditionally a day of rest and entertainment in the Empire), was very nearly as well attended, although only a few children were present. Rolf had had a central role in this event as well, being the Company's designated hangman. It was a honor to do it because hanging a man cleanly was a tricky business requiring skill and preparation, all the more difficult because Durek had, like every other execution organizer with more than one sentence to carry out, ignored his hangman's advice and insisted on a big gallows to hang all five at once. Showmanship having overruled expertise had given Rolf a number of problems, but with careful preparation and attention to detail he had overcome the obstacles, and all five had died quickly and cleanly, with no unsightly thrashing or dancing, and above all, no decapitation. It didn't please the crowd, who liked a bit of movement to tighten the gut and give rise to the usual dull jokes, but Rolf didn’t care. He was a craftsman who appreciated the mercy of a well-tied noose and properly adjusted rope; should he ever hang he hoped he had a hangman who knew what he was about.
He had hanged before; in the course of their various services the Badgers had hung numerous bandits and common murderers, as well as beheading captured Orcs and Goblins, although it was Durek or Kroh who usually did the axe work. To Rolf it was simply an exacting and onerous duty, no more, for his own life was set with codes of conduct that were non-negotiable, moral lines that were never to be crossed.
He had met with the trappers several times in the week between the sentence and the execution, to measure their height and weight, and examine the muscles of their necks, vital data for the exacting applier of the rope. Some had cursed him, and the youngest, still in his teens, had wept; neither approach touched the big Badger. He did have a grudging respect for Hekbar, who had remained defiant even as Rolf had carefully adjusted the noose around his neck, as courage was a trait that could be admired in even the worst sorts. The youngest trapper had become hysterical on the way to the gallows and had to be strapped to a board in order for the sentence to be carried out, but Rolf had anticipated that and allowed for it in his preparations.
He had worn no hood when he tripped the lever that sent five men to their deaths because he felt no need to hide his face. Hanging five would-be rapists who would burn down people's homes because they had been balked at taking a girl by force didn't upset him. Rolf had seen a lot of raped women and homes burned in his time.
"What're you doing out here?" For a Dwarf, Kroh was quiet on his feet; Rolf had only heard him when the Waybrother had mounted the steps to the catwalk.
"Thinking about the hanging," Rolf replied, ever literal-minded. He offered the napkin-bundle to Kroh, who fished out a greasy butt of a loaf.
"Dropped them like a stone into a deep pond, you did," the Dwarf admitted, a grudging respect in his voice. "Hardly a twitch in the five. Bastards like that deserve to dance." He took a swig from the cruet Rolf passed him. "Or we should've taken them to the quarry and let the women stone 'em to death."
Rolf thought that one over. "Why?"
"Because I've never seen someone stoned to death, that's why. I hear they do in down south, way down south, that southern continent with all the lizards and jungle and sand."
"Sufland," Rolf supplied absently. "But how would you be sure when to stop throwing rocks? I mean, they could just be unconscious, you couldn't tell at a distance. And how big of rocks would you use?"
Kroh shrugged. "I told you, I've never seen one done that way. Might be interesting, though. Hang them, burn them, or chop off their heads, it doesn't seem to get the message across to anyone else for long. Next year you have to do it to somebody new."
"You think we'll have to hang some more next year? We should have saved the gallows then, instead of breaking it up for firewood."
"No, what I mean is, they never stop raping and generally messing up."
"They do if you adjust the rope right," Rolf pointed out. "Old Hekbar won't lay a hand on anybody else."
"I mean people in general, you know, there's always trouble. Now that we're watching over all these dirt-grubbers we'll be having court and hangings pretty regular."
"Oh." Rolf thought about this for a while. "Do you think we'll have trouble this summer?"
"Not with trappers, I bet. Word'll be up and down the river about what happens if you paw a woman in Badgerhof. No telling who else we'll have to deal with, though. We might see more action here than we would if we had gone along to the Bloody Road."
"It'll be strange, staying behind. We've always been in the thick of things, before."
Kroh grunted agreement. "Durek knows what he's about, though. I'm guessing he expects trouble back here, what with all the Goblin sign in the mountains. Moving in here like we have can't sit too well with them, no matter what the Empire's papers say about this being sacred Imperial soil. It takes more than shifting the Ward to make the Goblins pay attention."
The two stood and watched the east grow light in companionable silence as Oramere woke behind them. The main force's carts and saddlebags had been packed the day before and all goodbyes said; Durek liked to make an early and unsentimental start to any undertaking, with all minds on the tasks and dangers ahead, no mooning about. The main force fell to with a will; many had not been out of garrison in over a year, and were eager for a change.
Starr, freshly risen, joined the two on the wall, brushing her hair with long, easy strokes. The little Lanthrell was the only Badger who lived apart from the Company, and the only member of the inner circle who did not stay in the tower. She had built, with Rolf and Kroh's help, a tidy little Threllian-style house in the central branches of four old oaks that stood in the southeast corner of the compound, disdaining to live encased in stone.
The three sat and watched the Company form up; besides the main force, all four of the team assigned to the raid on the White Necromancer were present. They would ride to the docks and load up on the boats with the main force, then be dropped off a few miles downstream and ride back by a roundabout way, thus confusing any onlookers as to who had left and who had stayed behind. Most of the force was on foot for the Badgers preferred to fight as infantry; three stout two-wheeled carts made up their supply train. While the main force formed up and man-handled carts into position before harnessing the mules, the support staff emerged into the morning and gathered to see the troops off.
The departing troop had already been fed in their barracks, and the prepared food for lunch and the next morning carefully loaded, but Rosemary still found work for herself and her charges, moving through the ranks of armored warriors distributing bundles of cookies and pastries to sustain them on the morning’s march. The cook's rosy features were set as stone, but most of the female element of her charges were in tears.
Without fanfare or ceremony, Durek ordered the troop to shoulder arms and led them out of Oramere's gates, giving a curt salute to those who remained behind. Tonya bore the standard beside Durek at the head of the heavily-armed column; if the dark-haired Badger was deterred by the knowledge that death had claimed each of the Badgers who had previously held her post, she gave no indication, instead cheerfully waving goodbye to Rolf and his companions. Janna and Arian followed Durek' example and gave no greater of a farewell than they would have if merely riding to town, although both had made a point of saying farewell to each stay-behind the night before.
The trio on the wall watched as Durek led the tro
op down the hill and into the surrounding trees, and continued to watch long after the troop was out of sight. Finally Rolf stirred.
"That's that, then," he sighed. "The raiding group will go out in four days, and then it'll be just us."
"Us and the Goblins," Kroh grinned. "Be like old times. I hates Goblins, killed dozens, I have."
"Too true," Starr nodded, covertly wiping away a tear. "Yes, you have. But I still wish we had the rest with us. It'll be lonely here without them."
"We'll keep busy,” Rolf assured the little Threll. "We've got to finish training the Ravenmist, and Axel's got a long list of things that need to be done; Kroh thinks we'll have to do some more hanging, too."
"Stoning, I think this time it should be stoning," the Dwarf offered.
"That's disgusting, Kroh!" Starr shook her head. "Hanging's bad enough, but stoning is disgusting."
"But I've never seen one, how am I supposed to know whether it's disgusting or not? And besides, dead is dead. Have you seen a stoning?" The Dwarf inquired hopefully.
"No, but it's disgusting nonetheless. I'm going to bathe," the young Lanthrell abruptly changed the subject. "Why don't we get a picnic lunch and all three of us go to that big pond; we can take turns bathing, and fish later?"
"Already had a bath not two days ago," Kroh mumbled, upset because his hopes for a stoning were dashed.
"Well, come along anyway, and stand guard for me."
"Might as well," Rolf suggested, punching Kroh on the shoulder. "Once Bridget's gone Axel will start concentrating on the summer's tasks and put us all to work."
Kroh sighed but let himself be led along. "Might not be disgusting if it's done right," he muttered to himself.
Chapter Five
Maximilian von Scheer IV wondered if anyone else was still awake. He eyed the wine jug longingly, but steeled himself and poured another glass of cider instead; it would not do to have gathered false courage from the grape on this morning, or worse, to be hung over. The water clock in the corner, a wedding gift from his late wife's parents, showed him that there was still a good three hours to go before he would meet with the other three members of the raid party for breakfast preparatory to leaving.
Going to confront the White Necromancer in his, its, lair. Just the thought of it sent waves of cold fear down his spine. He had been honored when Durek had chosen him for this task, but the realization of what he had been sentenced to had grown in him like a snowball rolling downhill until now, scant, eternal, hours before the start he was nearly paralyzed with fear.
Hopping to his feet, he paced miserably, wanting to weep and scream and beat his head against the wall; why oh why did this happen to him? It wasn't like he was a swaggering bravo who had bragged endlessly about his exploits only to land a task far beyond his abilities; he was Maximilian von Scheer the Fourth, once a respected, if colorless, archivist for the finest university in the Empire, latest in a family of noted persons, and husband to a two-legged shrew who had probably driven him here and was now directly responsible for his plight. He paused in his pacing to shake his fist at his late wife's painting over the clock, and felt a little better.
'I've spent my whole life being a complete nobody,' Maximilian raged silently. ‘Why am I being picked for something important now?'
He had been born in the Empire's capitol, burdened from birth with being the Fourth; there was something about Fourth that invited a certain sneer when pronouncing the word, as if by being the Fourth of a line you were pretty much a nothing. Not that he had really conducted himself in such a manner as to reap any glory; he had attended the University, married a charming girl who had turned out to have the personality of a waterwheel-driven bandsaw, the twelve-foot variety used to cut ship's timbers from huge ancient oaks. Twelve feet with tempered-steel teeth and a berserk foreman who...Maximilian realized he was taking the metaphor too far and jerked himself back to his thinking. He had become a respected archivist; at least, respected by those he worked with, not including his wife, of course, who was never satisfied with anything. She had a way of saying 'Maximilian' so that it had six syllables and rhymed with 'stupid', he recalled with an involuntary flinch. But, to give her due, she had kept a clean house, given him two healthy children, and been no public embarrassment; a fine cook, solid haggler, and meaner than a snake on a good day. And gods, her mother.
He would probably, no, certainly be still in his snug cubicle in the University's Library but for her sudden death in a screaming match with a fish-seller over a penny's difference in the price of a basket of haddock. Mourning had passed quickly for Maximilian, ending sometime between the wake and the actual burying. He had suddenly found himself in possession of his wife's dowry, which she had guarded like a queen dragon throughout their years of marriage, and a sizable savings, which she had built up by screaming at food-sellers and hoarded a penny at a time. His daughter had married shortly after the funeral, and his son was enrolled in, and housed by, the University, so Maximilian had found himself with plenty of money and nobody calling him an idiot every day. Of course, nobody was hand-pressing his tunic until it looked as if it had been tailored for him, and baking his favorite beef-and-cheese pies on the last work-day of the week, but that had been beside the point.
He had sold his house, paid up Maximilian von Scheer the Fifth’s (which didn’t sound nearly as bad as the Fourth) tuition for the entire course of his studies (in case of an accident), kissed his daughter goodbye, shook his son-in-law's hand with heart-felt sympathy (his daring little girl had her mother's talents at cooking, housekeeping, money-management and advanced torture techniques), and took a leave of absence from his position at the University.
It had been his ambitions to be a writer, and indeed, he had written a biography of Maximilians I through III that had been well-received; over the years he had accumulated a mass of research on the Ostwind War and the Pernian Empire, and he now set off to review the locations in question to give himself the inspiration and on-site references that would allow him to publish two excellent works that would firmly establish him as a respected historian. And to have his first unsupervised holiday since his engagement.
Almost as an afterthought he had retained the services of mercenaries, as the lands he would travel through were often dangerous to the traveler. He had been delighted when he obtained the services of a section of the reputable Phantom Badgers at a very reasonable rate, little suspecting that they were using him far more than he was employing them. Ultimately, they had revealed their secret to him, and he had covertly become a member, entranced by their defiance in the face of deadly foes; and when it was all done, he had openly become a member, a decorated member in fact, for his actions in Alantarn. He did not regret joining, nor continuing in the Company's service; but did they have to send him against the White Necromancer?
His quarters had little free floor space, and his marching in circles was making him dizzy, so he threw himself into his chair and mournfully contemplated his surroundings. His room was dominated by the desk he sat at and a flanking bookshelf; the two supported his works on the Ostwind War (now three-quarters complete) and the Pernia Empire (one-quarter complete), the fruits of his adventures of the previous year. Also present was a mass of work on the Phantom Badgers; as the first Company Historian, it was his duty to record the history of the Badgers for posterity, a task made difficult by the eight-year lead they had on him. The rest of his furnishings consisted of the clock, bed, wardrobe, and weapons rack; an iron-bound door led to an east-facing balcony, intended for defense rather than as embellishment, but Maximilian liked having it anyway. His decorations were a bit spartan, consisting of a foot-square painting of his wife in the fifth year of their marriage, his framed diploma, a painting his daughter had made of a sunset while still in her teens, and a dark wood rack supporting his great-grandfather's sword and a centuries-old Hobrec dirk that Elonia had found while they were campaigning out on the Blasted Plains last fall and given to him, but he felt they gave the p
lace a homey feel that usually comforted him. Usually. Not today, though. He checked the clock; still plenty of time to go, and not nearly enough. That was the hardest part, he decided, wanting the waiting to be over with and dreading the start of the expedition.
The sword on the wall caught his eye, and he slumped lower in his chair, embarrassed. The sword had belonged to Maximilian von Scheer I, who never called himself the First. He had been born Maximilian Scheer, and enlisted in the Legions the day he was old enough. He retired a General, having earned the Dwarven-forged blade and the von the hard way, north of the Old Ward campaigning against Orcs, Direbreed, and everything or everyone who was a threat to the Empire. He had never seen the old man except in a couple paintings, but it was his great-grandfather whose eyes troubled him the most, figuratively speaking. His grandfather, Maximilian von Scheer II had become a very notable scholar and engineer who had risen to prominence in the University; his father, Maximilian von Scheer III, who was the first to be born with the von in his name, had become a respected, if unremarkable, student of art. Interestingly, Maximilian reflected, his father had been the one to make much of the von and his parentage, while he himself never had. He had carried the sword last summer, and slain a harpy, Orcs, Eyade nomads, and Direbreed with it; more importantly, he had gotten a glimpse of the price the von had commanded. He had hung the sword on the wall after last summer; it was an heirloom, and a part of the past. And he was tired of being worried that he would lose it.
Maximilian I wouldn't have wallowed in sweat and fears before a hard mission, or perhaps he did, secretly, but he went out and carried out his assigned tasks anyway, Maximilian mused. Perhaps that was the way of it; that and remembering the price of things.
Sighing, the historian stood and went to his bed, where his gear was neatly laid out. He would go over his equipment one more time, and then have a nice long soak before breakfast. That and a brisk walk around the wall would put him in the proper frame of mind, he hoped.
