by Peter David
“What do you predict for your customers, Lord Executioner!” I called to him in the traditional manner.
And he, in turn, called back the equally traditional response: “I predict they will be well hung, milord!” This exchange, of course, caused yet another raucous outcry of delirious mirth.
Kate, for her part, was utterly taken with waving and blowing kisses to the enthusiastic crowd. Her feet kicked up little puffs of dirt as she all but skipped across the courtyard, although she continued to hang upon my elbow. I, the royal escort.
I was being treated like royalty; that’s what it really came down to. For the briefest of moments I flinched at that notion. After all, had I not seen firsthand the terrible shallowness that came with such an office? The hollow ideals of those below? The secrets, the scheming, even the madness that seemed with astonishing regularity to inflict those of royal lineage. Did I really want to be someone in that vein?
Then I drank in the cheers and approbation, the huzzahs and the undying adoration of those around me, and I thought, Hell yes. Just because all those whom I had met in positions of power didn’t deserve those positions, did not mean that I was therefore undeserving as well. I was, in fact, more deserving, for all of those other rulers and monarchs and warlords and such … they had been born with nobility or title or, at the bare minimum, two good legs. I had been Apropos of Nothing … and now, at least here in the stronghold of Dreadnaught, I was Apropos, Peacelord, overseer of Wuin and the most formidable entity around. No one was going to take that away from me … no one.
Especially Sharee.
We had been given a private viewing box not far from the gallows. Boar Tooth and Slake were already there waiting for us, and bowed deeply upon our arrival. “Superb morning for it, wouldn’t you say, Peacelord?” asked Boar Tooth jovially. I noticed his eyes were slightly red; obviously he’d been celebrating even harder than I’d credited him.
“Superb indeed, Boar Tooth,” I responded readily. I thought vaguely about how I’d had some sort of initial revulsion to something that he’d done with a woman … a sobbing woman, I seemed to recall. But the reason for her upset was beginning to elude me, and I was left with the growing conviction that Boar Tooth had done exactly the right thing when it was required. Beyond that I did not know or care to think.
We took our seats and Slake, ever the showman, took several paces out so that he could raise his arms and silence the crowd with a gesture. He paused a moment and then, bellowing, he shouted, “Do you want to see some hangings?”
“Yes!” thundered the crowd in response. No, Slake wasn’t going to have to work hard at all to get this bunch completely into the moment. They were dying for some dying.
As we sat in the observer’s box, Kate reached over and excitedly grabbed my hand. Her face was alight with the thrill of what she was witnessing. It was a look that bordered on the orgasmic. I made a mental note to have my way with her once we returned to the privacy of our chambers. Indeed, I suspected that it wouldn’t take much urging on my part. She kept casting sidelong glances at me, and at one point I noticed her licking her lips ever so slightly. Oh, yes. Yes, she was going to be a very willing partner when we were alone once more.
“Peacelord!” called Slake, his teeth gleaming starkly white in the sun against his black skin. “Shall we bring out the prisoners?”
I turned to the Lady Kate and grinned mischievously. “What say you, my lady?”
“Bring them out!” called Kate, and here came another roar. My ears were starting to hurt from the collective “huzzahing” that was pounding at us in wave upon wave of sound.
A great door opened at the far end of the courtyard, and, one by one, the prisoners were prodded out into the sun by armed guards. The condemned blinked furiously against the glare of the morning sun. They would have brought their hands up to shield their eyes, but each of them had their hands tied behind their backs with thick ropes.
Sharee was in the lead.
Naturally.
The crowd had hotly anticipated their arrival and was ready for them. Overripe fruit and vegetables hurtled through the air. The guards wisely hung back a bit to give the crowd a clear shot at the prisoners. Most of the missiles did not strike their targets, but as a result of the sheer volume of foodstuffs being thrown, some did indeed manage to hit home. They “splutched” against the prisoners with that singularly disgusting noise that only fruit can make, and the prisoners flinched or tried to fall back. The guards, however, had spears with them, and didn’t have to get in the trajectory of the missiles to be able to prod the prisoners back into line.
Only Sharee did not flinch. She did not even acknowledge her tormentors, which naturally angered them all the more. In short order she was the central target of their ire, and they let fly at her with everything they had. The shabby clothes she was wearing quickly became multicolored rags, and still she gave no sign that she was even aware of what was happening. She didn’t look at me, or them, or anything; it seemed as if she was entirely withdrawn into her own consciousness. I reasoned that it was possible she wasn’t even aware of where she was. That she had taken herself “out” of the moment, as it were. All things considered, that might have been the wisest course for her, for certainly things were going to get much worse before they got better. Actually, they weren’t going to get better at all … at least, not for her.
“Dead men walking!” shouted Slake to the joy of the crowd. Boar Tooth stood nearby, his arms folded, and he was grinning broadly as he took in the pulse-pounding excitement from all around. It was heady stuff, this.
Sharee arrived at the base of the steps and glanced up at the executioner with no change in her expression. The executioner’s own face, of course, remained concealed beneath the mask. Dramatically—a bit melodramatically, I thought—he pointed at Sharee and gestured for her to step up to the gallows. Eight nooses hung in a row on a long pole, and under each of them was a support onto which the condemned were supposed to step. The plan was for the executioner to bring them up, one by one, to their individual platforms, place the noose around their necks, tighten them, and then—again, one by one—kick the supports out from under them and leave them dangling.
I noticed that several of my soldiers were taking bets as to how many would die instantly, and how many would dance on air for a bit before expiring. Considering her petite stature, apparently the smart money was on Sharee to last so long that the mercy of the executioner’s knife would be required.
The executioner put a hand on her arm, but Sharee pulled away from him fiercely. This gesture of defiance brought raucous laughter from the crowd as Sharee took several steps away from the executioner. “I can find my way without you putting your paws upon me!” she snapped at him.
“Whooooooaaaaa,” called the crowd mockingly. They did not seem particularly inclined to give Sharee high marks for bravery. It just wasn’t that kind of lynch mob.
For his part, the Executioner simply bowed as if to a great lady and gestured for her to proceed him. Sharee took several steps …
… and paused.
“What’s she doing?” asked Kate with obvious impatience.
Sharee was bending over slightly. It seemed she was coiling herself up somehow, as if she was undergoing some sort of stomach cramps. Despite his all-covering hood, it was clear that the executioner was likewise befuddled over just what Sharee was up to. “Are you ill, miss?” inquired the hangman in a surprisingly solicitous tone.
And suddenly Sharee leaped straight up. Her arms moved so quickly that it was a blur. Down and under herself, under her leaping feet and up, and abruptly Sharee’s hands were in front of her. They were still tied together, but there was about a foot of rope between them that was now slack. She had literally vaulted over her own bound hands.
It caught the executioner completely flat-footed. Reflexively he started toward her, since all he was seeing at that point was a prisoner who was trying to make some last-ditch show of bravado with a hope
less escape attempt. He must have expected that Sharee would back up, would try to run.
She did the opposite: She lunged toward him. Once again unprepared, the executioner’s great arms swung out and tried to grasp her, but Sharee was too quick. She swept down and in, brought her wrists up in one smooth motion, and the length of rope between them hit the edge of the executioner’s knife blade protruding from his belt. The blade effortlessly parted the rope, and just like that, Sharee’s hands were free.
The entire thing had transpired in less than five seconds, and then Sharee reached up, grabbed the executioner’s mask, and twisted it around. The eyeholes now in the back of his head, the executioner was effectively blind. Although it was only for a moment, a moment was all Sharee needed as she pivoted and shoved as hard as she could. The executioner stumbled back and off the gallows and hit the ground some feet below with a mighty thud.
Pandemonium had now broken out among the crowd, who thought the thing was simply the greatest show they had ever seen. Everyone was screaming and shouting at once, and it was so loud that the captain of the guards barked orders that none of his men could quite make out, and the guards turned in his direction so they could hear him properly.
Sharee didn’t wait for them to sort things out. Instead she charged forward and vaulted off the gallows. She landed squarely on the shoulders of one of the spear wielders whose back was unfortunately to the gallows at that moment. Quickly she bore him to the ground as the other guards, realizing that she had taken the initiative, charged upon her as one and succeeded only in getting in each other’s way.
I was on my feet, watching the display and not quite believing what I was witnessing. I looked to Kate then and asked in wonderment, “I’ve managed to terrorize all of Wuin with these idiots at my command … ?”
And that was when Kate, rooted to the spot by fear, let out a shriek as her eyes practically leaped from their sockets. “Look out!” she screamed
In the brief instant that I had glanced away from Sharee, she had grabbed up the spear of the fallen guard, taken two quick steps forward, and with a smooth and effortless grace had thrown the spear as hard and as straight as she humanly could, screaming, “This day you die!”
It hurtled straight at me.
Her aim was flawless.
Had I not been the target, I might well have felt some degree of admiration for her newly revealed skill with a spear. But I had absolutely no time to marvel at her proficiency. In fact, I did not even have time to let out a panicked and startled scream as the spear flew through the air and slammed into my gut with a noise not at all dissimilar from the sounds of the rotting fruit that had struck Sharee and her cohorts.
The spear didn’t go completely through; Sharee didn’t have quite that much arm strength. But the damage was more than enough as it hit my stomach with sufficient force to lift me clean off my feet and send me crashing into my chair.
“She’s killed him! She’s killed him!” Kate kept screaming, and it would have been difficult to find anyone there—including me—who would have disagreed with her.
I lay there, stunned, clutching at the still-quivering spear, not quite able to comprehend what had just happened. The world seemed to be spiraling around me. Kate’s screeches blended in with the horrified howling of the crowd. The entire execution had devolved into a hurricane of insanity, and I was the calm eye of the storm as I lay there and waited for my life to pass before my eyes as my blood fountained from my gut wound. I hoped, in a surprisingly detached manner, that it would play better the second time around than it had the first.
No visions were forthcoming. Then again, I’d also heard that gut wounds could require several days to finish their grisly work. Just my luck, I thought bleakly. I finally prove Sharee definitively wrong about something—namely her belief that this would be the day I die—and it turns out to involve inordinate amounts of pain attached to the act of death.
My hands were gripped around the spear where it entered my stomach. And as there were wails and lamentations and cries of “Get a healer!” and “Too late! Too late!” and, of course, “Kill the bitch!” … as all that was happening …
I noticed something.
Something very, very odd.
There was no blood. No blood leaking from the wound, no blood pooling upon the ground beneath me. I noticed no blood at all.
What I did notice was a distinct and rather painful burning from the gemstone embedded in my chest. At first I gave it no thought, far more interested in trying to determine just why my hands were not thick with red liquid and spilling innards. But then it slowly began to dawn on me that there might be a connection … and it could be a connection that suggested staggeringly profound possibilities.
“Hold on, my darling! My love! Hold on! Endure the pain!” Kate was sobbing.
“I … don’t feel any pain,” I said with slow realization.
Kate didn’t comprehend. “He’s dying! He feels nothing below his neck! The final paralysis has seized him!”
With growing impatience I shoved Kate back with such a surprising show of strength that she, who was bent over me and very likely believing that she was ministering to my final needs, was utterly dumbfounded. Slake and Boar Tooth had been heading in my direction, although it was pitifully little, pitifully late. What good was there in protecting a target after the arrow (or spear in this case) had landed true?
And one by one, the members of the hysterical mob fell into complete, astounded silence as I hauled myself to my feet, the spear still solidly affixed to my stomach. I wasn’t sure which was more surprising to them: that I wasn’t bleeding, or that I was standing at all. All I knew was that, by the time I was fully upright again, every single eye in the place was upon me and no one was saying a word. I glanced in Sharee’s direction. She had a guard on either side of her, fiercely gripping her arms, and one behind her, with a knife to her throat clearly ready to carve her a new mouth directly under her jaw. But they too were frozen in place, and even Sharee looked stunned. That look of astonishment on her face was worth everything, up to and including the spear in my stomach.
And I realized that what I had said to Kate was absolutely correct. Not only was I not seeing any blood … I was feeling no pain. None. The only sensation I was experiencing was the burning of the jewel on my chest, and even that wasn’t painful. It actually felt … empowering somehow.
Every bit of medical training I’d ever undergone (mostly for learning how to survive while wounded on a battlefield) told me, in no uncertain terms, that the one thing you never do is simply yank out a spear to the gut. If it wasn’t bleeding profusely before, the geyser would come the instant you tried to pull it out, and you would likely take half your innards with you. But I was feeling a bizarre sense of exhilaration, of confidence. Opting to defy all logic and common sense, I gripped the spear with both hands and pulled as hard as I could.
At that moment there was an earsplitting screech.
For an insane instant I thought it was me … that I had become so disconnected from myself that I was screaming without even being aware of it. But then I realized with great amusement that the noise had originated from Mordant. The drabit had come swooping down from the upper spires of the stronghold to land atop the gallows themselves, bobbing his head and unleashing that bizarre birdlike caw from the depths of his throat.
And there I stood, with the cries of Mordant echoing across the courtyard, and the spear now in my hands. The point had come away from my body completely devoid of any blood or gore.
I pulled away the section of my tunic where the spear had pierced to reveal my belly.
It was clean. Absolutely clean. No sign of the spear’s penetration at all.
I had to know. I had to see. I looked up at Mordant, and, as if knowing what I intended to do, he nodded his head and there was that same bizarre glow in his eyes.
I tossed down the spear, pulled out my dagger from its sheathe, and drew it across my bare arm in full view
of the stunned assemblage. There were gasps and shrieks of horror, but these came more from reflex than anything else, for even the dullest of those observing was already figuring it out.
I watched the skin part beneath the blade, and for a heartbeat I thought that I had made a horrible mistake. But as quickly as the skin came apart, it closed back up again. There was no blood. There was no pain.
There was no mistake.
“I can’t be killed,” I whispered, and then more loudly, I shouted, “I can’t be killed!”
“It’s … not possible …” It was Boar Tooth who had spoken, and he was approaching with a look of total disbelief. Slake looked equally as flabbergasted. “Such a thing … is not possible …”
“Possible? Possible?” With a quick and easy movement that would have been impossible for one whose leg had been as lame as mine once had been, I vaulted over the edge of our private booth and strode out into the middle of the courtyard. Sharee wasn’t even struggling in the grasp of the guards; she was instead watching with as much astonishment as anyone else there. Clearly she had not expected this. How could she? No one had.
A wave of almost demented euphoria had seized me.
There is no greater priority for human beings than the instinct for survival. Everything we do, everything, stems from that. We eat to survive. We flee danger to survive. We sleep so that we can rest our bodies for the hard work of continued survival. We have carnal knowledge of one another in order to propagate the species so that the species will survive. And I liked to think that my survival instinct was not only as highly developed as anyone else’s, but more so. I had spent my entire adult life, it seemed to me, coming up with ways and means to avoid getting myself killed.
