Execution

by Shaun O. McCoy

  Domina had been right. This takes something from you. You’re never the same afterwards. You lose something.

  They can’t take that from Cid. She’s too precious. Better to die.

  She’s stripping now, and true to her nature, does so without any sense of self-consciousness.

  “Cid,” I try to say something more, but nothing will come out.

  The guards laugh. What the fuck is wrong with them? They have to know this is evil.

  The pants of Cid’s Icanitzu armor fall into a heap at her feet, and she steps out of them. Then, after tossing her top into one corner, she catches sight of Fabian’s exposed member.

  She smiles.

  The fuck?

  “Oh my,” her voice is lusty, as if she’s actually looking forward to her rape.

  Her eyes open saucer wide, like some chick in an old world porno, ready to worship her man.

  The hell is she doing? Her actions are so out of character, so revulsive . . .

  It looks like some of the blood has gone out of the General, however. Had she known that? Had she anticipated that her desire would be unattractive to him? Please Cid. Please be smart enough to stop this.

  I don’t think I can witness this.

  “Oh, you think you want it now,” Fabian says, “but you won’t in a minute.” He nods to one of his chuckling white-cloaked men. “Open the bars.”

  “Yessir.”

  The soldier runs over to the pulley. Bells jingle as the bars rise. Fabian gets on his hands and knees, then crawls into the cell. For a second I think he won’t fit. The bottoms of the iron bars ruffle the overflowing mass of his red curls.

  He squeezes through, the bells jingling as his caped back scrapes against the iron.

  El Cid throws herself at him, not like an infidel, but like a woman throwing herself into her lover’s arms. “Take me!” she begs.

  He pushes her away and backhands her. The crack is loud, and I’m sure it would have done something to a normal woman.

  But Cid lets out a pleased moan. “Hit me, Daddy! Punish me.”

  He backhands her across one cheek.

  “Yes!” she shouts, offering up the other side of her face. “This one too.”

  He slaps her, hard, the smack echoing in the prison.

  “More, sir. More!” Cid cries out. “Harder.”

  He rears back and slugs her. She tumbles backward, breaking her fall with her right arm slapping the ground.

  “Yes!” she shouts.

  “Shut up, cunt!” Fabian is fuming.

  He falls atop her, his fists clenched. He slugs her again and again.

  I can’t let this happen. I rush forward, slamming myself against the bars. The bells jingle with my impact. I try to lift one, but the rough iron will not budge. I kick furiously at them.

  Nothing.

  “Hit me harder!” Cid continues. “More, please. Please.”

  Fabian’s dick is floppy, completely unaroused. Cid’s legs seem tiny. She’s got them wrapped around his thick waist, but she can’t cross her ankles to get into the safety position she showed me in training. Still, she’s reaching up, as if to hug him. She’s moving in all the right ways to make sure his punches aren’t doing their worst. Her chin is tucked and her shoulders are hunched, so the blows don’t seem to be rocking her—but they keep coming.

  He pins her down with his left hand and brings his right down on her face like a hammer. Again and again and again.

  “God, more!” Cid shouts in the throes of passion, her chin still firmly tucked. “You’re so strong.”

  What the fuck is she doing? Is she going to make him beat her to death?

  And that idea gives me hope. Better that than for her to know what it was like for me in Tintagel.

  Fabian stops to catch his breath for a second, then he hits her, his fist cracking against her jaw. I hear her head rebound off the wooden floor.

  I cover my mouth.

  Oh, Cid.

  But she doesn’t lose consciousness.

  “So strong!” she says, and sits up to reach for his limp masculinity.

  He slaps her down. “Fucking cunt!” he screeches.

  Enraged beyond reason, Fabian begins another flurry. Cid is the toughest bitch I’ve ever seen in my life, but even so, this man outweighs her by the Devil knows how many pounds. Had she been able to actively defend herself, things might be going differently, but as it is . . .

  “Beat me Daddy, beat me!” she cries.

  Fabian’s strikes have lost some of their venom. His flaccid dick is an impotent inch worm between his legs. I see him look back over his shoulder at his guards. He must be feeling shame. He must realize how weak he appears to be for not being able to knock out such a tiny girl.

  God, is she going to pull this off?

  His brow is slick with sweat. He sits back on his knees, panting hard. El Cid is up in a second, coming at him, kissing him, her hands running over his body as if she was his lover.

  “Take me, Daddy!” she shouts.

  “You sick . . . bitch!” Fabian’s face is a brilliant red.

  He’s not going to be able to do it. He can’t rape her. He must need to feel like he’s in charge in order to get hard, but he has no control over Cid—and that must mortify him. She should be absolutely terrified of him. She should have been tricked into thinking that his actions toward her could cheapen her. But Cid isn’t like that. Cid isn’t human. She’s a fucking infidel. She doesn’t give a damn. She is that tiny voice inside our heads that screams at fate, that doesn’t want to give up no matter how exhausting the trials, how dangerous the enemies, how hopeless the fight.

  She can handle what destroyed me.

  Cid reaches out to him. “Daddy, please! Please love me. I deserve your love. Don’t I?”

  Fabian half stands up, taking Cid with him, and dives forward. His head drives down into hers, and again I hear the crack of her skull as it impacts with the wood.

  Jesus.

  It’s not going to work. Maybe against a slightly lesser man. She reaches up past his face with both hands, one palm up and the other palm down. Then, both hands gripping the man’s cape, she maneuvers one arm around his head.

  I’d not seen this hold before, but I realize it must be a choke. One forearm cuts across one corroded artery while her free hand tugs a part of Fabian’s cape across the other—forming a vice around his neck.

  A flurry of thoughts run through my mind. Will they shoot her for this? If Fabian wakes up, will he be too ashamed to do anything, or will he have her killed in a fit of revenge? How will this affect our trial?

  “Cid!” Q yells a warning, clearly thinking similar thoughts.

  But what does Q expect her to do? Do we want her to get raped just to increase our chances of survival?

  The two white-cloaked guards can’t tell what’s going on, but they clearly understand, maybe from Fabian’s body language or Q’s shout, that something isn’t right. Fabian’s head is beet red, and it looks like he may not stay conscious for long.

  He tries to stand up and press all of his substantial weight into her, but her leg snakes around his head, her choke still in place, and she wraps him up in an arm bar.

  Break his arm, Cid. Just do it, we’ll worry about the consequences later.

  Fabian grunts loudly as he lifts her into the air, his arm and neck still caught in her ingenious hold. Then he rushes to the side of the cell and slams her into the wall.

  Cid’s arm comes loose just in time to slap the side of her cell in the perfect mimicry of a breakfall. Then she topples unconscious to the ground. But why? Why would she be unconscious? I didn’t see her head get hit that time?

  Fabian kicks her limp body. Will he be able to get hard now? Will he kill her if he can’t?

  “Fabian!” I shout, because a man like him shouldn’t be allowed to hurt a girl like her.

  Fabian looks at me, panting heavily, sweat weighing down his red curls. He’s trying to look furious and disgusted inste
ad of out of breath and impotent.

  I grab the bars. “If you’re looking to fuck the unwilling, I’m your John.”

  I hear Q chortle in the next room. The levity of his reaction assures me that Cid’s okay, but I don’t dare let a smile touch my face.

  “Open the door!” Fabian yells, his blue eyes focused on me.

  He looks almost relieved, though, and perhaps he’s glad he has some way to save face.

  The bars open to the jingling of the bells.

  “No!” Cid yells, pretending to come to. “Don’t leave me, Daddy. Don’t fucking leave me!”

  Fabian crawls ungracefully out. For a moment I wonder if Cid is going to hurt him, but she stays in character. She throws herself at the bars, reaching for him . . . her fingers just missing his holster.

  I catch my breath.

  Her face is fucked. One of her eyes is swollen shut and her nose is surely broken. Her lip is split open, she’s cut in a couple of places, and I can see where blood matts her hair.

  “Don’t leave me!” she croons.

  Fabian stumbles to his feet, off balance, his dick still bouncing about. He comes up to my cage. I realize that he really might rape me, like Melvin and Fellman had. He draws his pistol, thank God.

  I turn and duck, trying to keep my head out of his line of fire.

  He shoots, the blast deafening in the tight confines, the bullet splintering the wood next to me. His men are shouting madly over the ringing in my ears. I dare a peak back.

  Cid is reaching through the bars. “Daddy!”

  His men are grabbing him. “Sir! You can’t kill him!” one cries. “The Tree Lord will have your head, sir.”

  Fabian grabs his boots, his member still exposed, and storms out. I hear his feet slapping against the wooden stairs. His two men stand there, sharing a look. Then they follow after their leader.

  “Cid!” I call, and I reach out to her.

  She stands, victorious—nude but inviolate. Blood is pouring down from her nose and from a cut under her swollen-shut eye. It runs off the point of her tiny chin.

  “Are you okay, Cid?” I ask.

  She shrugs her shoulders. “I’m fine.” Her voice sounds almost as nasal as Fabian’s.

  She reaches one hand up to her face, and I hear the crunching of cartilage as she sets her own broken nose.

  “I’m fine,” she repeats.

  I hear a series of bootsteps on the stairs.

  Nothing good ever comes from that noise.

  I begin moving my arms and legs, limbering them up for whatever damnable confrontation awaits us.

  Amirani enters the room, his slender shoulders and black cape infinitely preferable to the broad, green-caped monstrosity that had come through that same archway earlier.

  I let out a relieved sigh.

  My neck pops as I stretch it. My muscles scream as I climb to my feet, but I welcome their discomfort.

  Amirani’s face is the typical expressionless infidel mask, so I have no idea whether the news is going to be bad or good . . . until he catches sight of Cid, her bloody face, and her swollen-shut eye.

  “Jesus,” he breathes. “Are you okay?”

  She grins. “You can’t tell I’m winking at you?”

  My heart swells a little with pride for my leader, and I allow myself to smile with her. She is an unbelievably tough bitch.

  All five of us—myself, Aiden, Q, Neb and the battered Cid—step up to the bars. Of the prisoners, only Durgan remains at the back of his cage. He doesn’t fool me, though, that fucker is eavesdropping.

  “The hearing has been set,” Amirani says, “we’ve got tonight to prepare you.”

  I point to Durgan. “He can overhear us.”

  Amirani nods. “Yes, but he won’t be joining us on the first day. Tertiary witnesses are usually called on day two—assuming we make it that far.”

  Neb, ghost pale, his body clearly wrecked from the run, asks, “What are our chances?”

  “Of making it past day two?” Amirani frowns thoughtfully. “Pretty good.”

  “Why?” Cid asks.

  “Not because of the strength of our case,” Amirani says sardonically. “The drama of a trial will help people forget about the attacks.” He turns around, meeting all of our eyes. “We’ve got a two-part plan. First, we discredit Keith and show that Durgan here is a plant for our enemies. After that comes the hard part. We have to convince the crowd you deserve mercy for a crime that, quite frankly, we’re guilty of.” He glances at Aiden. “Everyone with me?”

  We nod in unison, even my son.

  He’s a good kid. Well, not technically, but—

  Q clears his throat. “What about this infused man, Callodax? His army? Are we in any danger from them while the trial goes on?”

  Amirani takes in a breath. “Very possibly. As for who they are, I’ve verified that you were right about them being Carrion born, Igraine’s people specifically. They’ve made some kind of deal with the infused. Just so you know, Keith’s been back to Dendra twice since you left for Soulfall. How the infused managed to get such a hold over Keith’s men, and over the Carrion born so quickly, I don’t know. I’ve verified that the infused is controlling the devils, using an Icanitzu Lord to grant him that authority.”

  I hear Q hit the wall, I assume in frustration.

  Amirani turns to me. “I think Callodax might view his human army as less expendable than his demons, and by having the demons take all the bullets, his men will have an easier go of it in a final assault. His devil attacks have badly depleted Dendra’s ammunition.”

  “And this Varadoolyn?” I ask. “Brother Durgan over here,” I point at the wight, who, like the bastard he is, nods back to me politely, “is said to be serving an Archdevil by that name.”

  Amirani shakes his head. “That is the line Durgan gave to his interrogators, but it’s almost certainly a lie. However, Dendra is pretty proud of having ‘extracted’ that information from him, so they’re not likely to doubt it. The real devil out there is the infused, and that’s the leverage we’re going to use to kick Keith’s ass out of this city.”

  I lean against the bars. “Now you’re talking.”

  “I took one of the treemen scouting with me. Now this treeman hates infidels, but he’s honest, so he’ll make a very convincing witness. Together, he and I were able to eavesdrop on the infused while he was speaking with an Icanitzu. Callodax was having trouble convincing the entire murder of Icanitzu and dezendyitzu to keep the attacks up. The treeman’s testimony, because he hates us so much, should be enough to kick Keith and his boys out of Dendra. Then we’ll only have the Accuser to deal with.”

  I’m starting to think we might have a real shot at this.

  “Getting Keith out is only the first part,” Amirani goes on. “You’ll still have to beat the charges of abetting a wight. Your Accuser, think of him as the prosecuting attorney, was an actual attorney in the old world, so we’ll be at a disadvantage sophistically speaking.”

  I raise my hand slowly, but even so, my back is tight enough that I nearly pull a muscle.

  “Yeah, Cris?”

  “I thought infidels were supposed to be really good at arguing?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “We’re a bit too occupied with finding the truth to be perfect in this context. The Tree Lord is our jury, judge, and of course, executioner, and his taste in argumentation is a little . . . unrefined.”

  I shrug. “I’ve always been more style than substance.”

  Cid frowns. “Be careful, Cris. Make sure you don’t make the Tree Lord doubt your honesty.”

  “That’s a good point,” Amirani says. “Now our intellectual honesty is pretty shot anyway, on account of our earlier lie.” He looks at me. “I’d ask you not do that again, by the way.”

  “How are they sure we lied?” I ask. “If Keith and his boys tattled on us to the Tree Lord, can’t we just say they made the whole thing up?”

  Amirani frowns. “Well, for one, Aiden’s state is p
roof against us. But even before you returned, I was caught. The actual, uh, tattler, was a girl named Ghela. She witnessed your lie about us having the Tree Lord’s blessing. She didn’t actually know we were lying when she heard it, which made her testimony against me pretty damning. There’s a lot of things that bother the Tree Lord, but none so much as ‘taking his name in vain.’ Your best bet is to point out that you only brought a wight into the city because of the extenuating circumstances of an attack. You would have liked to have asked the Lord for permission, but the time required would have been cost prohibitive.”

  “What’s that mean?” Aiden asks. “Cost prohibitive?”

  Man, he’s actually paying attention.

  “It means it would have taken too long,” Amirani answers, his eyes narrowing as he regards my son. “Now, on your first time through Dendra, when Aiden was on edge, you were clearly in the wrong.” He turns toward Cid. “Our hope is to make ourselves as likable as possible to the crowd. Now, I’ve seen the people of Dendra sway the Tree Lord before. He pretends to be aloof, but in his heart, he wants to be loved by his people. We need to set up an environment where the Tree Lord can make some grand sweeping gesture of mercy.” He looks again to Aiden. “Avoiding the fall will be a longshot for most of us, but for you, little Aiden . . . well, we need a straight-up miracle for you. When you’re being questioned, you’re going to have to sell how good a person you are. No matter your personal beliefs, no matter how you feel about your father and the others, your own survival depends on Dendra thinking you’re good.”

  Aiden nods. “I’ll do my best.”

  Amirani doesn’t trust Aiden, clearly. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe I’m an idiot for believing there is a spark of good left in my boy.

  Maybe the right thing really is to toss my son into the endless fog.

  “For all of us, delay is best.” Amirani smiles. “Alright, I’ll be stopping by each of your cages to coach you personally for the trial. Save any questions you have until then.” He looks pointedly at Durgan.

  So now he’s going to tell us the shit he doesn’t want Durgan to overhear.

  He moves over to Aiden’s cage. Their conversation is soft enough that I can’t hear it.