David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

A rumble passed through the crowd as Magister Wentner led a hooded Kristof and Lyana through them, flanked by Alexander and Vulfram’s scarred brother, Oris. The emotions of the assembly grew tenfold with each passing moment, some sobbing, some shouting in disbelief, a select few jeering. Those jeers cut into Vulfram, but he hardened his heart against them. To think on what he had to do, to dwell on the horror…he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, so he let it pass over him like water across a stone. Someone shouted “Karak!” and threw a rotten potato that exploded against Lyana’s pale, cream-colored gown, bathing her in stinking juices. He should have been enraged, but instead it was like a stake driven into the hole in his heart. At least the whore’s outfit and makeup had been washed off her. Lyana was about to greet her fate; at least she could do so with some measure of dignity.

The pair was brought before him and their hoods were removed. Lyana’s rosebud lips twitched and tears cascaded down her cheeks, but Kristof’s expression was wistful, almost dreamlike. His bloodshot eyes gazed up at him, and a half-smile appeared on his lips. Just looking at him, Vulfram felt a new respect for the doomed boy.

Then Kristof stepped forward, fell to one knee, and said, “I have sinned against my god. I accept the penalty without reproach, Lord Commander.”

Vulfram’s respect heightened even more. He nodded to the magister, who guided the boy back to his feet. Onto the executioner’s slab went his head. Oris began to walk away, to rejoin his wife and children at the forefront of the assembly, but Vulfram grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“Make sure they don’t turn away,” he whispered into his brother’s ear. “Neither your children nor your wife. They must learn a lesson from this. Not even the blood of the First Families supersedes our responsibility to the one who created us. Understand?”

His scarred brother nodded before Vulfram released him. Oris held his wife close and guided his two children in front of him, making sure they had the best view of all.

Vulfram drew Darkfall from its sheath on his back. The steady hiss that followed crept along on the breeze, making the crowd shiver. He held the sword aloft with both hands, the blade shimmering beneath the cloudy sky. Kristof offered the tiniest of whimpers from his place on the stone.

“Karak, have mercy on the soul of this sinner, who has so bravely accepted his fate. May he reach Afram safely and in the afterlife find the peace we all seek.”

Hands gripped tightly, muscles tensed, Vulfram brought the sword down as hard as he could. The cutting edge sliced through the boy’s neck, easily severing the spine. Deep in the crowd, the boy’s father screamed. The head fell to the grass and rolled five times before stopping. Kristof’s visage stared blankly at the overcast sky, while a few feet away a stream of blood spurted from the stump of his neck. The body shuddered, went taut, and then slumped to the side. The blood flow trickled until it finally stopped, bathing the stone in a fresh coat of red.

Servants came forward to take the body and head, placing both on a flat hay cart supplied by the Renson house, before toting the cart away. Magister Wentner and his young steward then yanked a shrieking Lyana to meet her fate. Vulfram halted them, gesturing instead for Alexander and Oris to approach once more. He heard Karak’s words in his head: All parties who deserve judgment shall receive it.

“There is another who has been judged,” Vulfram shouted to the crowd. “One who betrayed Karak through his irresponsibility and lack of wisdom. It is because of this man that the children have sinned, and his own involvement cannot go without retribution. Broward Renson, it is time for you to answer for your sins.”

Broward, who had been consoling his weeping son and daughter-in-law, looked up suddenly, his eyes wide. The crowd gasped. Broward tried to flee, but the gathered bodies formed a barrier behind him, blocking his exit. Bracken collapsed on the ground and his weeping intensified as Oris and Alexander snatched his father by the arms and hauled him backward, kicking and screaming, toward the stone.

“You can’t do this Vulfram!” Broward shouted, panic making his voice crack. “We grew up together! We were friends! ”

“Friendship is not enough,” Vulfram said coldly.

Oris and Alexander forced Broward to his knees. The man struggled mightily, but his bones were too old, his muscles too tired to resist the strong hands that held him. His head was pushed against the stone, his cheek slipping against the blood that still glistened on its surface.

“Accept your fate like your grandson did,” growled Vulfram as he raised Darkfall for a second time. “With honor.”

“This isn’t right!” shouted Broward. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! I was pro-”

The sword came down, cutting off the protesting man’s words. Broward’s head rolled away much like Kristof’s had, but his body stilled faster. Vulfram glared down at the corpse of the man he had called friend, the same man who had sealed his daughter’s fate. Momentarily overwhelmed by his anger, he spit on the headless body before the servants came to take it away.

Vulfram re-sheathed his sword, its blade coated in the blood of the guilty, and turned at last to the remaining sinner. Lyana stared back at him, her eyes wide with shock, her body trembling. His face a mask, hiding his emotions, denying the pounding of his heart, he pointed at her and flicked his finger. Magister Wentner and his steward stripped Lyana of her clothing, leaving her exposed to all of Erznia.

With a crooking of his finger, Vulfram summoned three women from the hushed crowd. The Sisters of the Cloth appeared like phantasms, beings covered from head to foot in gray wrappings and cloaks. Only their eyes peered through slits in their hoods.

Vulfram faced his daughter. “Karak’s will is clear; those accused of the most heinous of crimes must be punished, and that punishment is binding. Lyana Mori, daughter of Vulfram and Yenge, you have murdered the child within you, and for that crime, you are henceforth sentenced to twenty-five lashings and a lifetime of servitude to the Sisters of the Cloth. Never again shall your face be seen by eyes other than your suitors’, and no longer may you have a will of your own. Any children you birth shall become wards of the kingdom, and you shall give them up willingly. Do you understand your sentence?”

Lyana didn’t answer. She simply gaped at her father, shaking, whimpering, pleading.

In many ways, Vulfram felt Kristof was luckier than his daughter. Given the infancy of humanity, it was against Karak’s law to execute a woman of childrearing age except in the most extreme circumstances. Women who served with the Sisters were condemned to a life of isolation and servitude to prove their fidelity to their god. They pleased men, served as nursemaids, or worked as enforcers of Karak’s law, depending on their talents. They could have no belongings other than the attire of the order, and they could not show any part of their body in public other than their eyes. Lyana might have escaped the blade, but she was now presented with a fate many considered worse than death-she would become less than human, a tool for men and their god, an empty vessel whose personal wants and desires counted for nothing.

The Sisters approached Lyana and dragged her to the stone. Two held down her hands, while the third carried the wrappings and cloak that would become her nearly constant attire. She was left exposed to the crowd, her body glistening with sweat as she struggled against the Sisters’ restraints. She cried out into the late afternoon air, her voice filled with anguish.