Execution

by Shaun O. McCoy

  That’s my future. That’s always been my future. Only, until now, I’d played this game in my head where I pretended it would never come.

  Well here it is. Today is that day.

  I remember the state of mind I’d been in when Cid and Q had fought Domina for me. How I did nothing to help myself. How I just shut down.

  This is how Callodax wins. I almost fought him to a draw, but when I bound up his physical weapons, he just used psychological ones instead.

  I remember the shame I felt when Q looked at me, alone in the darkness of the infidel sanctuary, and saw me for the wretch I’d become.

  Through the leaves I see dyitzu pouring over to the Safe Tree, and that seals off the last inkling of hope I might have had. Even if the dezens stay away, Callodax’s friends will get here first.

  “And your son,” Callodax goes on, his words falling like dried leaves onto my dead mind, “wights are not in any way resistant to that torture. It works on them just the same.”

  Long, long, long is the breath my lungs take in.

  I love my son.

  I love him as a human, and as a wight. I’ve loved him since the first second I saw him, since he cried out as a newborn, his naked skin exposed to the harsh air of a world far, far too cruel for his vulnerable body.

  Is his future the same as mine? Is even turning into a wight not enough to protect him from the pain of this place?

  The first dyitzu are stepping onto the bridge to the Prima tree. It looks like they’re trying to get a better angle on a few remaining treemen across the gap, but I know they won’t be held up for long.

  I love you, Aiden. I love you, I love you. You are not alone.

  Tears blur my vision as my heartbeat picks back up, blood again pounding in my ears as the cacophony of the song of my own violence drowns out whatever words Callodax says next. And it doesn’t matter what you say, Callodax. It doesn’t matter what you want, or how many devils you have to help you get it.

  You freak, you have no idea what I’m willing to do to keep you away from my son.

  “Look at me!” I scream, my voice shaking.

  He’s stopped talking.

  I draw my gladius.

  Callodax regards the weapon, fearless. And of course he’s fearless, the sword can’t hurt him.

  I swing the blade at my wrist.

  The agony of the infidel-forged blade cutting into my flesh and bone is unbearable. My body reacts primally to the wound, flooding my brain with the most intense physical suffering I’ve ever experienced. My vision is clouded. My heart beats so hard in my chest I think I’ll die. I can’t breathe.

  This is the pain people were made to have. Not the weird emptiness inside your gut or the shame of having your soul laid bare to your enemy. This pain is purer.

  I try to pull away but somehow I’m still caught.

  My sight comes back, and I notice I haven’t severed my hand completely. Blood flows out from my cut flesh. I can see torn muscle and half-severed bone. He lunges again, reaching with his free hand for my shoulder. I drop back and use that motion as the backswing for my next strike. I cut deeper into my wrist.

  Almost.

  Again.

  So close.

  Again.

  Free.

  I’m on my knees. It doesn’t hurt now. Nothing hurts. I try to stand, but my balance is iffy. Blood keeps pouring. Callodax is reaching for me. God help me, I can’t move. His fingers try to claw at my face, but I’m an inch out of his reach. I crawl away, almost falling through the gap between the weights. The dezen’s purple fire clings to the stone, slowly dripping as a flaming rain into the abyss.

  I put my stump into the fire.

  The blood nearly puts out the napalm-like substance, but I watch as the skin browns and curls from the heat. My body is sweating, so much that I feel the water collecting in my boots.

  I pull the cauterized arm back, inspecting the wound.

  Not quite.

  I put my arm back in the fire.

  Good.

  I pull it out.

  I look back at Callodax, and rise.

  “Watch,” I say between quick breaths.

  I feel cold, lightheaded, and peaceful despite the inhuman beating of my heart and my hyperventilation. I don’t know what’s going on. Am I going into shock? I leap off and fall onto the branch beside the weights. I tumble, come up to my knees, and crawl next to the ladder for the counterweights’ levers and pulley. I claw my way to my feet and ascend, one armed. The climb is long.

  My legs don’t want to work.

  My vision is getting dim.

  There’s a small platform here, just like at one of the sap stations, where the pulley is fixed into the tree.

  I pull out the infidel fire and unscrew it, jamming it into the counterweight’s pulleys.

  I try to do the military descent Cid does on ladders, but slip halfway down, landing hard on the wood. To my right, Callodax struggles against the silk as the whistle reaches its climax.

  He looks directly at me, and whatever soul inhabits that body is fucking furious.

  The infidel fire goes off, blasting the pulley and severing the top part of the chain.

  The counterweights fall, trying to separate, but are held together by the tensile strength of the spider silk and the demonic durability of Callodax’s infused muscles. I bet that’s going to be an absolute bitch when he lands, even for him. Maybe he’ll dislocate something. Maybe he’ll even die.

  I wave goodbye to him with my stump.

  The dyitzu on the bridge stop to look at their falling leader.

  Dezendyitzu dive after the stone blocks as the weights tumble down the canopy. Callodax’s body catches a branch, and the weights pull him down evenly to either side.

  For a moment, he’s balanced, but then the branch bends, and he rips away a slew of leaves as he slides off the limb.

  Now I need to get to my son and the others and get the hell out of here.

  I try to stand, but my balance is gone. My head swims. I push myself up the side of the trunk. For a second, I look at my stump.

  Big fucking mistake.

  I can feel the pain and nothing else. Again I drop to my knees and I hear some man cry out in agony.

  That man is me.

  You’re a fucking infidel, Cris. Your son needs you. His soul loves you. You’ve got to help.

  I make it to my feet again. The infidel fire fucked the ladder, but there’s a bridge that runs up around the trunk as well. It’s a ramp with no stairs, which is nice. I’m not really in a stairs mood right now. I make a good attempt at a stumbling jog around the spiral of the trunk. I arrive at the platform. My body feels so fucking cold, though I’m still sweating profusely, and salt is getting in my eyes. I blink the perspiration away and—oh no.

  Please no.

  God.

  The dezen flock is rising slowly out of the mists.

  Callodax is still attached to one weight, and he’s missing a boot. The dezendyitzu and a few Icanitzu are clustered around him and the stone, their wings flapping madly.

  Where the hell did those Icanitzu come from?

  Together they are lifting Callodax. Their progress is dismally slow, gaining only inches at a time, but they don’t have far to go. There is a branch they’re angling to rest him on.

  Oh no you don’t.

  After seeing Callodax, I have no difficulty finding my balance. I walk to the smoldering Tree Lord and kick him over. With my remaining hand I reach down and grab the key. I pull, and the leather cord around his dead neck snaps.

  Sorry, Jesus.

  I put the cord in my mouth and grip it with my teeth. I draw the Old Lady and cock it one handed, jerking the shotgun up and down by the pump.

  I fire at the bamboo bars which protect the Prima Tree’s kill switch. The buckshot splinters the wood. I cock the Old Lady again and fire a second shell into the bars when I get within a few feet of it. Grasping the Old Lady by her heated barrel, I swing her like a
club to clear the remnants of the bamboo.

  I sheath the Old Lady.

  The key makes a clicking noise as I push it into the lock. It turns easily.

  Somewhere in the tree, I hear infidel machinery turn and hum.

  Time to go.

  I run with renewed vigor, doing my best to keep my coming state of shock away with what must be pure adrenaline.

  Through the cracks in the boards, I see they’ve set Callodax down on one of the branches.

  That’s not going to work like you think it will.

  A chorus of whistles melds together like an army of sopranos singing their polytonic hatred out unto the world. I hit the bridge at a sprint and don’t stop.

  The blasts go off in quick succession, echoing out across the chamber.

  Keith is on the far side of the bridge.

  Aiden is there too.

  The pair of them, my mortal enemies, a man of the Order and my bewighted son, catch me as I collapse. Harris and Fin take up watch around us, shotguns at the ready. I hear some shouting.

  “Stand down,” Keith yells at someone. “We only had beef with Fabian. We’re withdrawing. Save your fight for the devils.” I hear his whisper. “I’ve got you, Godslayer.”

  Then I feel a kiss on my forehead.

  Oh, the company I keep.

  Another set of explosions boom in sudden, even bursts, each wave occurring about a second apart. It’s all I can do to turn my head and look.

  One by one, the roots of the Prima Tree erupt in fire and dust and smoke. A hail of stones and dirt issue from each blast, and a slow rain of silt begins. That rain, a halo, descends, forming a nearly opaque cylinder, slowly spreading down around the tree as the demolition continues, obscuring all but the outermost branches. I hear the ripping roots above even the concussions of the blasts. And then, as if it were only tentatively obeying the laws of gravity, the Prima Tree begins its slow fall.

  The dezendyitzu and Icanitzu flee the circle of grit and dust, spreading out in all directions like cockroaches faced with an unexpected light. The devils are screaming, perhaps afraid for their own lives, or perhaps feeling some other demonic emotion.

  Someone else, a human, is screaming bloody murder. For a second I’m worried that it’s me, but the voice is too feminine.

  The dust begins to settle over me, but I cannot feel it. I only know it’s there because it’s getting dark.

  They’ve laid me down against the wall of some corridor somewhere. The smell of trees and leaves and fire is still in my nostrils, but we’re not in Dendra. Dim shapes surround me, but their faces are the faces of my friends.

  Thank God. If I ended up back in Keith’s custody, I think I’d have just gone ahead and gotten the stilling.

  “He’s awake,” Q says.

  “My son?” I ask.

  “He’s safe, with us.” Cid’s voice answers.

  “Is Callodax dead?”

  I feel a hand against my forehead. “No fucking clue,” Cid says. “We need to get word to Ares or Endymion or someone to come check, just in case.”

  “The Infidel himself?”

  I’m able to focus enough to see Cid’s face.

  “No,” she answers. “He’s way too far out. But it needs to be an infidel we can trust has the power to kill it.”

  I look to the stone ceiling. It feels nice to be in the wilds again. I see Amirani by an exit, keeping watch. I’m glad he’s come with us.

  “What if Callodax is following us?” Neb asks.

  Cid stands. “Then he’ll follow us right to Endymion or Ares. That’d be good.”

  Q shrugs. “If worst comes to worst, we can always just throw Cris at him again, and see what happens.”

  I smile.

  Cid had settled us down in a series of rooms along the Northern Lethe. She’d said there were places along the river where it’s safe to camp, and that this place is one of them.

  I’d offered to take watch, not because I was well enough to, but because I need to be alone—badly. Oh so very badly.

  She wouldn’t let me take watch, but there’s a room by the river whose only exit leads back to camp, so it’s safe. We bathed in it, and I’ve returned here now to be by myself.

  Though I’m as tired as I’ve ever been, I can’t seem to sleep.

  My mind won’t stop working. It’s like it realizes there is something missing, and it wants to keep thinking until my hand regrows.

  I sit on a boulder and try to wait out my thoughts.

  Hell heals all wounds, thank God. Would I have chopped off my hand if it wouldn’t regrow?

  Maybe.

  I feel miserable.

  Must be the shock.

  Or maybe it’s that I killed half of Hell and, despite all that, my son is still a wight.

  I think of the room in Maylay Beighlay—as the river rushes by—where Myla died. Where the workers—the river is quite interesting. It cuts the room in two, but it’s hardly straight. Usually the rivers in Architect-touched rooms have squared banks, but this one is more natural, as if it’s allowed to have its way with the bricked stone around it.

  The chamber’s ceiling isn’t very high. I could jump and touch it, I think. I scratch my cheek with my remaining hand.

  I can tell my body wants to cry again.

  Really? Now? Isn’t it all over? I won, God damn it.

  But these tears are different. I can’t stop them. I try, but they come anyway—little bitch that I am.

  Cid wouldn’t cry.

  I wait for the tears to pass, but they don’t. I do my best to keep them quiet, but I can’t.

  Instead I collapse to the ground and curl into a ball.

  I cover my face with my arms, fighting to keep the ugly feeling in, but the emotion bleeds out anyway. My chest and abdomen clench in sudden even bursts as my soul tries to do something, anything, to express itself. But what this agony is, why it’s come or why it won’t go, I don’t know.

  I hear light steps.

  And Cid is here, my angel, her arms wrapping around me. “It’s okay, lover.”

  Something is broken inside me. I’ve been such a little shit in the last month or so, and I’ve had plenty of time to get used to myself crying—but now something isn’t right. There is something wrong with me. Something that won’t be fixed from another session with Cid or even after a decade of relative safety. Crying usually gives me some release, but these aren’t those kind of tears.

  I’m not crying to express grief. There’s too much of it for that. I’m crying for help because I can’t do this on my own.

  “What’s wrong with me?” My words shake like a little boy’s.

  “I’m sorry, Cris,” she whispers.

  Cid pulls me up in her arms. I remain mostly curled up, my hip on the stone and my back on her chest. Her hair falls across my face, damp hair, because she’s crying too. Softer tears than mine. Tears of empathy. Tears that don’t make her sob, or hate, or act irrationally. Infidel tears.

  Her lips touch the back of my head. “This time it’s my fault.”

  But she’s lying. I hurt so much.

  So much.

  “No,” I say. “My son. I was raped, I . . .”

  “I know why you’re crying, Cris.”

  “I’m broken. My son. My—”

  “It’s not those things, lover,” she says. “This is different.”

  I turn my head and look up through her trusses of black hair.

  “You’re crying because you know. Because you understand what the labyrinth is really about. You know what it wants from you, and what it will someday get. You know it will get these things from those you love as well. From me, and from your son.

  “But you’ll cry again, someday. You’ll cry because you didn’t save Dendra. You’ll cry because you brought on their destruction. You’ll cry because you chose your son over an entire village. You’ll cry because you initiated the continued torture of so many people. You’ll cry because you know you’re responsible for all th
at, and you care about people, Cris. Some of those tears will be my fault, because I’m the one teaching you to care.”

  “I hate myself, Cid.” Because I betrayed her at every turn. Because I lied and wheedled and used every tool she’d given me to get what I want, consequences be damned. Because . . .

  Now I’m seeing myself clearly, past all the little tricks people use to make themselves think they are good. Oh, God. No wonder Earth was such a mess. No wonder there were wars and hate up there. No one taught us how to see ourselves clearly, and who would want to if they knew what evil thing lay underneath the webs of convenient lies our subconsciouses whisper into our gullible ears?

  But Cid had taught me other things about people too. Of course I’d do what I did. I’m human. I’m biased. I used lies to meld an unfriendly reality with the idea that I was a worthwhile person.

  I’d had this expectation of myself, that I’d be a rational creature, a thing with a mind of an angel that can do what is right. That cares what is right. That is what is right.

  But rational is not what I am. It’s not what people are.

  We are despicable self-deceivers.

  But not Cid.

  Cid very nearly has that angel mind. She wasn’t born with it, that I know. She must have fought like hell to get it, facing difficult truths which the rest of us turn away from.

  When I pretended I was good, I was cheapening her effort. Her ungodly effort.

  Maybe we humans can be beautiful after all.

  I have never admired anyone as much as I admire her now. Her face, so familiar to me, covered in tears and wet hair, etched with an almost superhuman concern—it fits somehow. There’s a part of my mind which expects her blue-green eyes. That knows the curve of her chin and the shape of her slightly upturned nose. I know each of the muscles in her cheeks and how they play across her delicate features. I know each expression she has and which emotion brings them.