David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

Antonil met his gaze a while longer, refusing to back down. Victor’s respect for him continued to grow. As the silence stretched, a man in a green cloak was led toward the dungeon door, then around to the side. Antonil noticed this, and gestured in that direction.

“Where does he go?” he asked.

“I shall show you.”

Victor led Antonil around the back, to where two elderly men stood before a tall table. To the side was a hastily constructed platform, and in its center was a thick wood block. Seeing it, Antonil clenched his jaw, and his eyes widened.

“Calm yourself,” Victor said. “They are your judges, those appointed by Edwin, not myself. They hear our evidence, read what we have collected, and then offer sentencing.”

While the man with the green cloak was dragged before one of the judges, another climbed the two steps of the platform. His face was ashen, and his eyes remained locked on the floor. By Victor’s guess he was fifteen, sixteen at most. Two of Victor’s soldiers led him to the block, where a heavyset man waited, ax in hand.

“How many?” Antonil asked quietly as the thief was flung atop the block, his arms tied by ropes looped through holes in the platform.

“Seventeen today,” Victor said. “By tomorrow it should be twice that. The list of crimes grows by the hour.”

“Seventeen,” Antonil whispered. “How many executed, and how many sent to the dungeon?”

Victor shook his head. “You still don’t understand, do you? Your judges do. Mercy has been extended long enough here. All seventeen have met your executioner’s blade. The dungeon is only for those who refuse to cooperate, who would rather bite their tongues than reveal the guilty. This is war, Antonil. War against the very culture that has twisted and perverted everything great about Veldaren and turned it into something wicked. We have no time for prisoners.”

The executioner lifted his ax. Neither Victor nor Antonil looked away as it descended. There were no onlookers, no gathered crowds, so they easily heard the plop of the head hitting the wood, the sound of the blood dripping across the platform, and the untying of the ropes as men cleared away the body.

“I want every name,” Antonil said. “Every crime, every shred of proof leveraged against the men who died here today.”

“Of course,” Victor said. “I understand your fear that we will execute an innocent. It won’t happen, Antonil. I won’t let it. The only sins I’ll bear shall come from waiting as long as I did. Come with me. I’ll tell Sef to prepare everything you need.”

As they walked back toward the initial five lines, Antonil stepped in his way, grabbed him by the front of his collar, and pulled him close. Victor tensed, but he sensed no anger, no threat. Antonil’s eyes met his, and they were full of fear… and hope.

“They’ll kill you,” Antonil whispered. “Something like this, so grand, so terrifying… they won’t let it stand. I don’t care how many guards you have, how careful you are, they’ll still slit your throat, cut your body into pieces, and then scatter the remains about the city. You are a dead man, Victor.”

Victor took a step closer, put a hand on Antonil’s shoulder.

“Let them try.”

He pulled away from the guard captain, then motioned Sef over.

“Everything he requests, fulfill to the best of your abilities,” he said. “I must return to my room, and ensure no specters lurk in its corners. Oh, and Antonil…”

Victor sighed, tried to see things from the other’s perspective. His grin faded, and he let some of his honest worry shine through.

“I know I might die doing this,” he said. “But when? How long? Because each day we do this, the sun shines that much brighter upon Veldaren. Succeed or fail… I’ll have done something.”

“What drives you, Victor?” Antonil asked as Victor put his back to him and walked down the street. “What madness would have you risk so much for so little?”

Victor waved good-bye, and did not answer. Unguarded, he walked down the street, but he never felt alone. His men were everywhere, always watching, always searching. They saluted as they passed him by, and each time, he smiled back. Just a small smile and a meeting of the eyes. He wanted each man to think he’d put special interest in him, watching closely for signs of greatness. For the most part, it was true. And when he received that night’s report, listing the dead under his command, he’d recognize every name, remember every face. Steeling himself against the pain did little to help.

King Edwin had not offered them a place to stay, just as Victor had expected. The man was a coward, and Victor was lucky enough to have had the king go along with his plan, however distantly. But the castle was not a safe place anyway. It was too big, too grandiose, with all its windows, high ceilings, and lengthy halls filled with a million shadows. Most of Victor’s men would be staying in inns scattered about the town. Victor had carefully chosen his home, though, and secured it before ever going to Edwin. Eyes watched him from rooftops, but it didn’t matter if they saw where he slept. The constant surveillance only showed how frightened they were of him.

“Evening,” Victor said to the two men stationed before the entrance of what would be his home for the foreseeable future. It had once been a tavern, shuttered for months until Victor bought it. Every single window was boarded up. All doors but one had been nailed shut, and then bricked. There was but one entrance, and it was to be guarded at all times. Upon his arrival he’d filled its stores with food and drink, carefully packed away. He would search no food for glass, require no taster for poison. Everything watched, everything controlled, just as he liked.

The outside soldiers banged on the door a few times, then called out Victor’s name. Moments later, it was unbarred and opened by the interior guards. Victor nodded, pleased with their attention to detail, and then stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit, and while it had a vacant feel, it was still being meticulously cleaned. Servants moved about, and upon seeing him they quickly bowed and asked if he had any needs.

“Wine, if possible,” he said, unbuckling his sword. “And something light to eat. Bring it to my room when ready.”

The servants bowed again. Victor climbed the stairs as they hurried into the kitchen. Another of his precautions: the servants were all male, and had been in his service before coming to Veldaren. They stayed within the tavern, leaving only when they must. He’d even implemented rules with the guards that all servants were to strip naked, hand over their clothes, and then dress again on the other side of the door. A severe measure, but he could not be too careful. The fate of the entire city rested on his survival. He couldn’t risk a servant’s accepting a hefty bribe.

His room was sparse, his only luxury a bookcase full of carefully bound writings. The mixture was eclectic, from philosophers to kings to old wives who wrote children’s fables. He was drifting his fingers over the spines, pondering what to read that night, when he heard the door close behind him.

“Well, aren’t you a careful bastard?”

Victor’s heart caught in his throat. He’d tossed his sword onto the bed upon entering, and he thought to leap for it. Instead he turned and stood proud and tall while confronting his no-doubt murderer.

“Not careful enough,” he said, meeting his intruder’s eyes. He was a dark-skinned man, with darker hair that grew down to his shoulders. His gray clothes were clearly that of a guild, but more noticeable were his eyes. One was a deep brown, the other a bloody red. “Have you come to kill me, thief?” he asked.