Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

Gareth raised his fist, intending to punish the Hand for his speech. A glimpse of the wizard’s face caused him to hesitate. Magicka’s brow cleared in an instant, his face smooth as a pail of fresh cream. The sharp eyes of the captain, however, had noted the ripple that passed across its surface at Hugh’s accusation.

“Insolence,” the wizard said coldly. “You are bold for a man facing a terrible death, but we will hear you cry out for mercy before long.”

“You better silence me and silence me quick,” said Hugh, his tongue running across his cracked and bleeding lips. “Otherwise people might remember that you’re now guardian of the new little lord, aren’t you, Magicka? Which means you can run things around here until the kid’s . . . What? Eighteen? Or maybe longer than that if you can keep your web wound tight around him. And I’ve no doubt you’ll be a great comfort to the grieving widow. What mantle will you wear tonight—the purple of royal magus? And wasn’t it strange, my dagger disappearing like that. As if by magic—”

The wizard lifted his hands. “The ground quakes in fury at this man’s blasphemy!” he shouted. The courtyard began to shake and tremble. Granite towers swayed. People cried out in panic, huddling close together. Some fell to their knees, wailing and pressing their hands in the muck and mud, shouting in supplication to the magus to ease his anger.

Magicka glared down his long nose at the captain of the knights. A punch from Gareth, given somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, in the small of Hugh’s back, caused the assassin to gasp and draw a painful breath. The Hand’s gaze, however, never wavered or faltered, but remained fixed on the wizard, who was pale with fury.

“I have been patient,” said Magicka, breathing heavily, “but I will not be subjected to such filth. I apologize to you, captain,” the wizard continued, shouting to be heard above the rumbling of the ground and the cries of the people. “You were right. He will say anything to save his miserable life.” Gareth grunted but did not reply. Magicka raised his hands placatingly and, gradually, the ground ceased to shake. People drew deep breaths of relief and rose to their feet again. The knight’s gaze flicked aside at Hugh, met the Hand’s own intense, penetrating stare. Gareth frowned; his eyes went from the assassin to the wizard, and they were dark and thoughtful.

Magicka, speaking to the crowd, did not notice.

“I am sorry, truly sorry, that this man must leave this life with such black spots upon his soul,” said the wizard in grieved and pious tones. “Yet so he chooses. All here are witness that I have given him ample opportunity to confess.”

There were sympathetic, respectful murmurs.

“Bring forth the block.”

The murmurs changed in aspect, becoming loud and anticipatory. People shifted around to get a good view. Two burly wardens, the strongest that could be found, emerged from a small doorway leading to the dungeon of the keep. Between them they carried a huge stone—not the lacy and delicate coralite of which almost everything in the city except the keep itself was constructed. Magicka, whose business it was to know the types and natures and powers of all rocks, recognized the stone as marble. It did not come from this island or from the larger, neighboring continent of Uylandia, for no such rock existed there [2] All the floating isles in the Realm of Sky are composed of coralite. The excretion of a small, harmless, snake-shaped creature known as the coral grubb, coralite is spongelike in appearance. When it hardens, it is as strong as granite, though it cannot be cut and polished. Coralite forms very fast; structures made of the substance are not built so much as grown. Coral grubbs give off a gas that is lighter than air. This keeps the isles suspended in the sky, but can be a nuisance when attempting to construct buildings. The magic of first-house land wizards is necessary to remove it. Occasionally, deposits of iron and other minerals have been discovered embedded in the coralite. How they got there is not known, but it is presumed to have been a phenomenon that occurred during the Sundering. . The marble, therefore, came from the larger, neighboring continent of Aristagon, which meant that this block had been dug out of the land of the enemy.

Either it was a very old piece of marble and had been brought over legitimately during one of the few periods of peace between the humans and the elves of the Tribus Empire—a theory the wizard discounted—or Three-Chop Nick, as he was known, had smuggled it over, which Magicka thought probable. Not that it mattered. There were numerous diehard nationalists among the lord’s friends, family, and followers, but the wizard doubted if there were any who would object to a piece of dung such as Hugh the Hand losing his head on an enemy rock. Still, they were a hotheaded clan and the wizard was thankful that the marble was so covered with dried blood that few of Rogar’s kin would recognize the stone. None would think to question its origin. The marble block was about four feet by four feet and had a groove cut out of one side that was almost exactly the size of the average human neck. The warders—staggering under the weight—hauled the block out into the courtyard and placed it in front of Magicka. The executioner, Three-Chop Nick, ducked out from beneath the doorway and a tremor of excitement rippled through the crowd.

Nick was a giant of a man and not one soul on Dandrak knew who he really was or what he looked like. Whenever he performed an execution, he wore black robes and a black hood over his head so that, when passing among the populace on a daily basis, he would not be recognized and shunned. Unfortunately, the result of his clever disguise was that people began to suspect every man over seven footspans in height of being an executioner and tended to avoid them all indiscriminately.

When it came time to deal out justice, however, Nick was the most popular and sought—after executioner on Dandrak. Whether an incredible bungler or the most talented showman of his time, Three-Chop certainly knew how to entertain an audience. No victim ever died swiftly, but lingered on in screaming agony as Nick hacked and chopped away with a sword that was as dull as his wits. All eyes went from the hooded Nick to the black-haired prisoner, who—it must be admitted—had impressed most of those present with his coolness. But all those in the courtyard that night had either admired or actually been fond of their murdered liege lord, and it was going to be a distinct pleasure for them to see his killer die horribly. The people noted with satisfaction, therefore, that—at the sight of the executioner and the bloodstained weapon in his hand—Hugh’s face set in masklike calm, and though he carried himself well and forbore to tremble, they could see his breath come quick and hard. Gareth grabbed the Hand by the arms and, dragging him out of the wizard’s presence, led the prisoner the few steps to the block.

“What you said about Magicka . . .” Gareth hissed the words in a low undertone, and, perhaps feeling the wizard’s eyes boring into his back, let the sentence stand unfinished, contenting himself with interrogating the assassin with a glance.

Hugh returned his gaze, his eyes black hollows in the flickering torchlit night. “Watch him,” he said.

Gareth nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face unshaven. He had not slept since the death of his lord two nights previous. He wiped his hand across his sweat-rimed mouth; then the hand went to his belt. Hugh caught a flash of fire, reflecting off a sharp-edged blade.

“I can’t save you, Hugh,” Gareth mumbled. “They’d cut us both to ribbons. But I can end it for you quick. It’ll likely cost me my captaincy”—the knight glanced back darkly at the wizard—“but then, after what I’ve heard, it’s likely I’ve lost that anyhow. You’re right. I owe that much to her.” He shoved the Hand around to stand in front of the block. The executioner solemnly removed his black robes—he disliked having them fouled with blood—and handed them to a young boy standing nearby. Highly elated, the child stuck out his tongue at an unfortunate friend who had been hovering near, hoping for the same honor.