Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

With a roar, Jebel brought his axe smashing down, thinking not of victory but only of ridding Makhras of the blight of wicked men. The head of his axe hit the mark in the center, cut down to the heart of the log, then kept on going, all the way through, to bury itself in the earth beneath.

The crowd froze. It should have been impossible to split a log with a single blow. The logs were handpicked by experts to ensure that they would require at least three strikes. This had never happened before. Nobody had ever thought that it could.

As the moment of shock passed, everyone leapt high and punched the air, even Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh. Then they rushed forward to surround, embrace, and revere the unlikely winner of the mukhayret… Jebel Rum… the thin executioner!

Jebel was a hero. Everybody loved him. Storytellers began composing epic sagas about his adventures north and his triumph in the mukhayret. His teachers boasted that they had always known he was destined for greatness. Every maid in Wadi dreamt of being his wife, although only one had the real, smug anticipation of it.

But Jebel was to be a short-lived hero. Every mukhayret closed with an elaborate ceremony. There were lavish tales of the past, music and dancing, speeches galore. And at the very end, to commemorate the appointment of the new executioner — what else but an execution?

That was where it all went wrong.

Jebel didn’t know what he was going to do until he was standing in the square of execution, an axe in his hands, a hooded mask thrust down over his head by his father, staring at a woman who had been led to the platform and placed before him. Her neck looked very small on the executioner’s block.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He had been caught up in the rush of the mukhayret, then in the fluttering eyelashes of Debbat Alg. But now here he was, axe cold in his grip, expected to be a dispenser of justice and a severer of heads. His father and brothers stood beside him, glowing with pride.

The square was jammed with bloodthirsty um Wadi desperate to be able to say in future years that they saw the new executioner make his first kill. Some had even skipped the mukhayret to be here, taking their positions early that morning. All were chanting Jebel’s name and pounding their hands together.

Rashed Rum was trying to explain himself over the noise. He was pointing to the woman’s neck, showing Jebel the angle at which he should strike. Jebel didn’t hear more than one word in five. In the end he grabbed his father’s hands and squeezed. “But what did she do ?” he cried.

“Do?” Rashed Rum frowned.

“Why is she here?” Jebel shouted. “Why are we executing her?”

“She committed a crime,” his father answered.

“What crime?”

Rashed Rum studied his son’s eyes, wide and round in the slits of the mask, and his frown deepened. “Does it matter?” he grunted. “Thief, adulteress, murderer — they’re all the same. You’re not here to judge, just to carry out the wishes of the law-abiding um Wadi.”

“But…” Jebel hesitated, trying to find the right words. As he was searching, the high lord climbed onto the platform and held up his hands for silence.

“It is time!” Wadi Alg roared. He had prepared a fuller speech, but it had been a long day and he was tired. “Wield your axe, Jebel Rum!”

There was one last roar of approval from the crowd, then an absolute hush. Wadi Alg stepped down off the platform. Rashed Rum, J’Al, and J’An retreated. And Jebel was left alone with the woman whose head he was supposed to chop off.

The woman wasn’t afraid. That was why she had been chosen. There was never a shortage of criminals to be executed in Wadi, but nobody wanted to present a new executioner with a struggler. The whole city yearned for a clean kill. This woman had been singled out, since they knew she would kneel calmly when her time came.

Jebel walked from one side of the block to the other, noting the woman’s slim arms and legs, her shaved head, the gentle arc of her neck. He wanted to look into her eyes, but they were lowered. The crowd watched Jebel, eagerly anticipating the first blow, hoping he’d cut off her head with one expert swipe.

Jebel lifted the axe. He wasn’t in the right position, but that didn’t matter. He meant to swing wide three times, then claim that nerves had got the better of him. The woman would be set free, as any criminal was if they survived three blows, and Jebel would earn a day’s grace in which to consider his options.

But before he’d brought the axe higher than his knee, he knew he couldn’t do it. This wasn’t a time to lie. There was no way he could bring himself to execute a human being, and if he pretended that there was, he would be selling himself false.

“No,” Jebel said, laying the axe aside and removing his hooded mask. “I won’t do it.” And he stood, arms crossed, awaiting the reaction.

The crowd gaped as if they were part of the same body. The silence was total. Jebel could see people struggling to make sense of his words.

Then, from near the back, came the first jeer. It was quickly taken up by others, and soon the square was alive with boos and screams. Those near the platform made claws of their hands and scraped at the air like cats.

Danafah Alg hissed to her husband. “You need to do something!”

“What?” the high lord snapped.

In answer, his wife shoved him forward to the base of the platform. He had to take a quick step up or fall flat on his face. The crowd assumed he was mounting the steps to see justice done, and their cries died away. Some applauded. Wadi Alg had no choice but to advance. Silently cursing his wife, he ascended.

Jebel waited patiently for the high lord on the platform. The woman had kept her position on the block. She wasn’t sure what was happening but thought it safer to keep her head down and not get involved.

When Wadi Alg was face to face with Jebel, he cleared his throat, glanced nervously at the axe, then said, “What is the meaning of this, Jebel?”

“I know that I’m only an ignorant boy,” Jebel answered quietly, “but I’ve come to believe that murder is wrong. I won’t kill this woman.”

“But she stole!” the high lord spluttered. “She was caught and she confessed. There is no question of her guilt.”

“Then imprison her,” Jebel said. “Or make her clean streets. Or take money from her if she has any — although if she was stealing, she probably hasn’t. But don’t ask me to kill her, because I won’t.”

“But you won the mukhayret!” Wadi Alg exploded. “Why enter if you didn’t want to be the executioner?”

Jebel paused to consider the question. Why had he entered? He’d told himself that he had no choice, that he must prove himself in the mukhayret or be killed. But that argument didn’t hold up — he was invincible, so he couldn’t be punished. What was his real reason for putting himself through this and making a mockery of the age-old system?

As Jebel questioned his motives, he remembered something. Growing up as an executioner’s son, he had learned all the rules of his father’s trade. But he had forgotten this one, except in some small part of his brain, which had held it in reserve until the moment was right.

“I’ll replace her!” Jebel shouted.

Wadi Alg blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“The law of the axe,” Jebel grinned. “If an executioner won’t execute a person, he has the right to replace them on the block and be killed in their place.”

“Well… yes,” Wadi Alg said, taken aback. “But that law was put in place so that an executioner could spare a loved one, a wife or child, by sacrificing himself instead. This woman is nothing to you, is she?”