Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

“I want these two,” Qasr Bint insisted.

The judge hesitated. The long-established law for slaves who tried to escape was clear, but so was the more recent law passed by the high lord regarding men like Qasr Bint. He didn’t know which he should be seen to support.

As the judge deliberated, Qasr Bint smiled thinly. “I offer no reprieve, merely a delay. These two have sinned and must be punished. They will die at my hand, I assure you, maybe a week from now, maybe a year. But they will be executed. Of course, if you wish to discuss it with the high lord first, I would be more than happy to summon him here.”

“There’s no need to disturb him at this hour,” the judge scowled, deciding that it would be wiser to obey the wishes of a current high lord than those of his long-dead peers. “Very well. They’re yours. But if you set them free, you will be asked by this court to account for your actions.”

“I will set them free only when I take a knife to their throats,” Qasr Bint said. Then he sliced through the prisoners’ bonds, sheathed his blade, pointed to the exit, and led them past an astonished Bush and Blair and out of the Uneishu. Though life was unexpectedly theirs again, neither Jebel nor Tel Hesani felt much relief, and both wondered if they might have been better off if they had been left inside to dangle.

Qasr Bint walked slowly and stiffly. He never once glanced back at Jebel and Tel Hesani, but neither thought for a moment of trying to escape — they sensed that he would turn on them instantly if they did, and crack their heads open with his walking stick.

There weren’t many people on the streets at that time of night, but the few who were abroad scattered when they saw Qasr Bint striding towards them. They vanished into their homes, inns or deserted buildings — whatever was nearest.

Qasr Bint headed north to the outskirts of Disi, to a small camp of tents arranged in a triangle. A few dozen people squatted within the triangle, muttering prayers, facing the apex, where the tallest tent stood. All had shaven themselves bald like Qasr Bint and were dressed in similar robes. Most scratched at their flesh with long, jagged fingernails. Blood from their wounds trickled into the snow, and small crimson pools had formed around many.

Qasr Bint stood at the rear of the group, looking on with a thin smile. Then he clapped loudly and bellowed, “Enough! Sleep now. We leave in the morning.”

The people rose and made for their tents. When they were all inside, Qasr Bint advanced to the tall tent. He stopped short of it, then drew back the flap of a tent to his left. A bony, wide-eyed, bloodstained woman looked out, her face alight. “Is it time, master?” she asked in a reedy, trembling voice.

“Not yet, daughter,” Qasr Bint said. “I’ve brought back two new converts. Will you guard them for me?”

The woman looked disappointed, but she nodded and said, “Of course.”

Qasr Bint trained his gaze on Jebel and Tel Hesani. “You will sleep here. We’ll break camp early. When we stop in the evening, come to me and I will tell you of your new, wonderful purpose in life.”

He slipped inside the tall tent and closed the flap. Jebel and Tel Hesani glanced at each other. Nobody but the woman appeared to be watching. The opportunity to escape seemed too good to be true. But both felt that they were being secretly observed and any attempt to escape would be harshly cut short.

They entered the tent and lay on bare earth next to the woman. Without a word, Jebel and Tel Hesani stretched out and lay in the darkness, uncovered by blankets, eyes open, ill at ease, and entirely unsure of what the morning would bring.

As Jebel tried in vain to fall asleep, he became aware of a small clicking noise. He turned and looked at the woman. Her robe was raised above her knees and she was scratching at a wound on her thigh. She had worked her way through to the bone and was picking at it with her nails.

Jebel rolled away and squeezed his eyes shut, and although he didn’t get any sleep that night, he didn’t open his eyes again until morning.

The camp came alive at dawn. The bald, thin, miserable-looking people exited their tents like ghosts and drifted to the clearing within the triangle, where they knelt and launched into prayer. Jebel and Tel Hesani knelt with the rest of them, near the back, beside the woman whose tent they’d shared.

Prayers and self-mutilations lasted an hour. Then they returned to the tents and dismantled them. It was quick work and they were soon on their way. There was no breakfast save for water, which was passed around in a dirty leather flask.

They marched west in triangular formation, chanting solemnly. Most scratched themselves as they limped along, opening or widening wounds on their arms, legs, and faces. Some stuck pins into their flesh or cut themselves with knives. A few carried whips and flailed their backs. The only one who didn’t mutilate himself was Qasr Bint, who strode at the head of the group, leading the chanting.

They passed several villages. When the villagers spotted the parade, they dived inside their houses and didn’t emerge until the chanters were long gone.

Jebel wanted to ask Tel Hesani if he knew who these people were, but he didn’t think he had permission to speak. Except for the chants, nobody had exchanged a word all morning. He didn’t dare break the unspoken code — he suspected that the penalty for doing so would be a savage whipping or worse.

There was no pause for lunch. They marched until afternoon. Occasionally some would fall and struggle to rise. Instead of being helped up, they were surrounded by their companions, who kicked and poked them until they clambered to their feet. The victims of these beatings never complained. Nor did they thank those who had struck them. They just marched as before, softly chanting.

Shortly before they stopped for the day, the woman whose tent Jebel and Tel Hesani had shared fell and couldn’t rise. She’d fallen a few times and been bullied back to her feet, but this time she just lay there as she was kicked and punched. When they realized she couldn’t continue, one of the men whistled sharply. At the head of the group, Qasr Bint lowered his gaze and circled back. He stared at the woman for a moment, then said, “ Now , daughter, it is your time.”

The woman’s face lit up. “Thank you, master,” she wheezed, tears of joy trickling down her filthy, bloodstained cheeks.

Qasr Bint nodded at the people around the woman. They picked her up and tore her robe from her. Her flesh was a mass of cuts, scars, and seeping wounds. The woman tottered, then wrapped her arms around Qasr Bint. She tilted her head back and he kissed her. While their lips were joined, he stuck his hands out. A knife was placed in each by his followers, the blades long and curved. Still kissing the woman, Qasr Bint placed the tips of the knives to her sides and pressed in. He drove each knife all the way in to the hilt, left them there a few seconds, then wrenched them out.

Blood gushed. The woman yelped and collapsed. Qasr Bint returned to the head of the group, and the march continued. The woman was left behind to thrash in the dirt and die.

Jebel and Tel Hesani trembled wildly, shocked by the lewd violence, but also filled with a terrible sense of dread. If this was how they treated one of their own, what hope for the um Wadi boy and his slave?

Finally Qasr Bint stopped in the middle of nowhere, stepped off the track, strode into the middle of a field, and dug the tip of his walking stick into the dirt. His followers unpacked their belongings and began to set up the tents.

“Where do you think we’ll be sleeping?” Jebel whispered. Tel Hesani shrugged. “Do you know who these lunatics are?”