Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

“What the hell-” The slaver’s outburst was cut short as he caught site of Darcy, who still hadn’t moved from her place straddling what was left of the dark haired girl. She looked up at Cerrin and smiled. Her smile sent an ice cold shiver up Tiadaria’s spine.

Whatever was inside that girl, it was no longer human. It looked up at them with no more reason or remorse than a wild animal. She just sat there, covered in blood, staring and smiling, smiling and staring. The slaver backed away, taking up a position near the door. His eyes darted from the girls in the corner to the murderous creature in front of him. He seemed not to notice Tiadaria for a long time. When he did, he swore under his breath. He turned to one of the men who had entered with him.

“Get her out of here, into another cell…and get a cleric. If she dies, I’m out twenty crowns and two prize beasts.”

The man grabbed Tiadaria by the chain between her shackles and began to drag her across the floor to the door. Before he had pulled her into the hallway, she heard Cerrin speak again.

“Leave those two here. Move that one into another cell…and do something with the dead meat. There’s a river down in the valley. We don’t need the landlord asking too many questions. I’ve lost enough crowns today already.”

Tia passed out, succumbing to the welcome blackness.

There was a knock at the door and Royce looked up from the pile of parchment he was working his way through. It was the Magistrate, a man who looked far too much like a weasel for the Constable’s peace of mind. He stood in the doorway, a rat in men’s clothes, his robes blocking out most of the sun that streamed in behind him.

“Constable,” the Magistrate droned in his bee-like voice. Royce ground his teeth. “The executioner is ready to begin.”

Royce flicked his hand and dropped his eyes to the parchment before him. “So let him begin.”

The Magistrate sighed, a drawn out sound of long-suffering.

“Your presence is required, Constable. The executions cannot begin until you have taken your customary place on the platform.”

Royce would have loved nothing better at that moment than to tell the Magistrate exactly where he could shove his custom and what he could do with it when he got it positioned there. He sighed. Still, the man wasn’t wrong. It was the customary duty of the Constable to attend every execution to see that every aspect of the king’s law was followed to the letter.

He dropped the parchment and scrubbed at his face with the palms of his hands. Why, oh why, had he retired from the army and come to live in this tiny little town of absolutely no consequence in the middle of nowhere? Furthermore, how was it that his little hamlet had managed to produce not one, but two criminals worthy of execution?

To be fair, he hadn’t even looked at the death warrants. Royce had simply counter-signed the documents below the Magistrate’s signature and filed them in the pile to be sent on to the capital. He supposed that he should take more pride in his work, but he was so tired of taking pride in anything. The entire reason he had picked this particular posting, out of all those that the king had offered him, was that it was sparsely populated and people would leave him alone. That way he could continue dying, slowly, in peace. In theory, at least.

“Fine,” Royce finally acquiesced with a sigh. “I’ll be there momentarily. Please go and let the executioner know that we will be proceeding as planned.”

“As you command, Constable.” The Magistrate accorded him a half-bow and withdrew, leaving the door standing open. One day that man was going to get his comeuppance, Royce thought bitterly. He only hoped that he was still around to see it when the happy day came to fruition.

Standing brought a fit of coughing that shook his fighter’s frame. In a few moments, the fit subsided. The taste of copper was thick in the back of his throat. He took a vial from his belt pouch and swigged it down, grimacing at the vile taste. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, the cloth coming away from his lips tinged pinker than he would have liked.

His vigor drained, Royce walked out on the wide porch that surrounded the tiny, single room office. He pulled the door shut behind him and walked slowly toward the square and the throng of people who had congregated there. He was in no mood to deal with this nonsense today. Best to get it over with, and quickly.

The executioner was already on the platform, a hulking vulture of a man with the wardrobe to match. He was clad head to toe in the traditional black sackcloth vestments of his trade. His instrument, a wicked ax with a blade as long as Royce’s arm, was slung over his shoulder, gleaming in the morning sun.

As Royce climbed the short steps, he was struck by how surreal the scene before him was. Normally the prisoners brought before the blade were the type of ruffian one would expect: murderers, thieves, rapists and the like. The girl that stood on the platform between two heavily armed guards couldn’t have possibly been a threat to anyone.

Five feet tall if she was an inch, she was a mousy little thing, unsteady on her feet and swaying from side to side. Royce wondered if she might not be entirely in control of her faculties. She stood facing execution and yet seemed not to have a care in the world. She stared off into space, her eyes glazed, and her fingers twitching along to the songbirds nesting in the trees at the edge of the village.

If Royce had been pressed to pick the person least likely to be slated for execution out of the crowd, this girl would have easily made the top of the list. Something was wrong here. Perhaps he should have paid closer attention to the death warrants that crossed his desk. The crowd fell to a murmured hush as the Constable crossed the platform to his customary position near the Magistrate.

“What’s the meaning of this, Magistrate?”

“The meaning of what, Constable?” The Magistrate withdrew his spider-like hands from the folds of his robe just long enough to motion for the executions to proceed.

“You know damn well the meaning of what,” Royce seethed. “If that girl is a day over fourteen, I’ll turn into a dragon and fly away.”

The Magistrate spared him a sidelong glance before his eyes returned to the executioner, who was fitting the little blond girl with a hood.

“I wasn’t aware that age had any bearing on the ability to commit a crime, Constable. You signed the death warrants yourself. Surely you don’t dispute their validity now?”

“I don’t give a lead crown over validity,” Royce snapped. “What did this girl do to end up with her neck on the block?”

Finally the Magistrate turned, according the old soldier with his full gaze. His large watery eyes were full of contempt.

“She murdered another girl in cold blood. Are you going to argue that murder is no longer an offense that carries the penalty of death?”

Royce tugged at his lower lip. The executioner raised his blade.

“Wait!”

It was the right of the king’s law for the Constable to commute any sentence, even death, but it was rare enough that only a handful of the elder folk in the crowd could remember such an occurrence. Royce had never nullified a sentence. Most of the people who ended up on platform deserved it. With this one, he wasn't so sure. Maybe his curiosity was getting the better of him, but there was something here. Something he could feel at the back of his neck and the base of his spine.

He approached the girl and raised the hood from her head. It was then that he noticed the witchmetal collar around her neck. He sighed. She was a slave. That changed things. The girl’s eyes seemed to look through him. He snapped his fingers in front of her nose until her lazy gaze met his.