A gallows.
It took Cyrus's mind a moment to fully work through the scaffolding, and how it was elevated above the ground, with nooses already hanging from it. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. “It's an execution, all right.”
“But for who?” Alaric asked.
“Whom,” Curatio said a moment later. Grinning into Alaric's annoyed glance, he said, “What? I didn't author your silly language.”
“Who would normally be executed in a place like this?” Vara asked. “And at a time like this?” Her attention flitted to Shirri.
Shirri, once more, looked properly gobsmacked. “Uhm...thieves? Murderers?”
“Only the ones not employed by the Machine, I assume,” Vaste said.
Now everyone looked to Guy, who was a pace or two in front of Cyrus, where Cyrus could keep both eyes on him. The former Machine thug looked properly miserable, and it did not improve as he caught the group's full attention. “Well, of course. What's the point of running the town if your people get executed for doing their bloody jobs?” He shook his head like they were all idiots for even asking.
Alaric let a low growl. “Such a miscarriage of justice. Better there be no standard than a double one.”
“Not sure I quite agree with that,” Cyrus said. “Seems to me it's better to catch some murderers than none,” he added when the Ghost shot him a look hotter than a fire spell.
“It seems to me there are fairer ways to run a city than through thuggery and violence,” Alaric said. “But I suppose that's lost here, along with—”
“Hope, yes,” Vara said. She craned her neck trying to see over the crowd, then leapt, just a little, to take a look. “Seems they're bringing people up now.”
Cyrus watched; she was right. Ascending the platform were a small host: city guards with their long cloaks led the way, and following them came a half dozen pitiful-looking prisoners. Their clothes were ragged and worn, covered in vileness that probably came from the crowd. Rotten eggs, spoiled fruit and milk – he couldn't entirely tell, but the smell, which reached him even a hundred feet back from the platform, was a strong hint.
“Let us move closer,” Alaric said, and began to carefully shove his way through the crowd. Mazirin was almost casually following in his wake, which Cyrus noted with furrowed brow. What was her involvement in all this again? Why was she still hanging about after delivering them back to Sanctuary?
“I hope you're not getting any honorable ideas,” Curatio said, shoving his way through just behind Mazirin. “To my aged eyes, this looks to have the makings of a trap.”
“On this, we are all agreed,” Cyrus said, scanning the eaves of the buildings that overlooked the square. There was no motion up there, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. And there were plenty of cloaked figures surrounding the square, not to mention a good many horsed and horseless carriages parked along the cobblestone streets containing who-knew-what? “This is poor grounds for any confrontation on our side. The only beneficiaries of us engaging in a brawl here would be the God of Chaos and the God of Death, not necessarily in that order.”
“Being as they're both dead, I suppose we would say that Malpravus properly takes both their places,” Vaste said from somewhere behind Cyrus as they all threaded their way through the crowd. “Let's not do anything to benefit him.”
Cyrus had an angry, yelling woman plow into his arm and bounce off when she struck armor. She wheeled on him, about to curse him, he expected, when she saw who he was. Instantly she stopped, eyes wide. He put a finger before his lips, shushing her. She nodded once, and he moved on. “This is not good,” he offered.
“You are a hell of a prophet,” Vara said, almost banging into his back as he stopped to keep from smashing into a fat man who was shaking his fist in rage. He'd stepped in front of Cyrus and rather than send the poor bastard flying with a shove, Cyrus waited a moment, detoured around and fell back in behind Curatio. The crowd was getting thicker as they grew closer to the platform, and quieting down as someone up there was trying to speak. “Has not everyone said much the same now? Would anyone care to register a contrary opinion regarding the possibility of a trap lying waiting for us here?”
“My contrary opinion is that we should not involve ourselves,” Vaste said. “We should stand our beautiful arses off to the side and let whatever madness is happening proceed apace, then deign to intervene at some future target that better benefits us.”
Alaric stopped at the front of their queue, almost causing all behind him to pile up as they all came to a halt in one grand mess of a line strung out through the middle of the insufferable, stinking crowd. Cyrus wanted to pinch his nose shut, the stench of humanity and lack of bathing incredibly apparent in these close quarters. “You think we should stand by as injustice occurs?” Alaric asked, staring back right at Vaste.
“Yes,” Vaste said, nodding once. “If this is a trap, we should. By all means. For as I learned from a barely-competent idiot who was once elevated to general before achieving godhood, the setting of your battle is at least as important as the composition of the forces you bring to bear. If the enemy has chosen this ground, has chosen his forces, then I submit to you we have already mostly lost this fight in theory. Best not to do so in practice.”
Cyrus felt more than a little poleaxed by that one. “I was more than competent as a general, you pie-eating muttonhead. That said...” He looked around once more. There were too many possibilities to even account for the threats that could be lurking in this place. “...I think Vaste may well be right. If this is an ambush, you know from whence it comes – Malpravus. Which means he will have accounted for all of us or nearly all of us, and you can believe he will use our own weaknesses against us.”
“He will definitely use your weaknesses against you,” Vara said haughtily. “I, however, have no weaknesses for him to exploit.”
“In your case, he'll use Cyrus,” Curatio said.
“Who are you calling weak, healer?” Cyrus asked, vaguely irritated.
Curatio just smiled. “The purported swordsman who couldn't get back his father's blade without help from a much older and more experienced friend...who is also a healer.”
Cyrus pondered a few retorts, none of them particularly stinging or effective. “Point,” he finally conceded, as gracefully as he could.
“Shh,” Alaric said, face visible over Mazirin's shorter head. She was watching them all with evident distaste. “I want to hear this.”
One of the city guards on stage was speaking, projecting his voice over the crowd. Their crosstalk had already resulted in at least a few people shushing them, though Cyrus paid them little heed.
“—A most bitter and heinous occasion,” the guard was shouting over the silenced. “Criminality this wanton and brazen must be punished without hesitation. Therefore, these six stand before you, convicted only this morning of their most vile and execrable crimes: Thurin Mortday – accused of penury—”
“That means not paying one's debts,” Vaste said, sotto voce. “See? Most civilized places count that a 'most vile and execrable crime'.”
A volley of SHHHHH! hit an uncaring Vaste from all points around them.
“—Matthewe Frankling, guilty of murder and sedition, Devid Ournsram, guilty of sedition and thievery—”
“Lot of sedition in this bunch,” Cyrus muttered to Vara.
“A great many instances of it indeed,” she replied, similarly whispering. “I wonder if that's standard to affix to the criminal indictment? A catch-all that is levied like a tax upon any criminal found to be an irritation to the Lord Protector?”
“Wouldn't surprise me, knowing the Lord Protector.”
With each name read out, the criminal was forced to stand up on a barrel as the executioners affixed the noose around their neck. There was a low muttering through the crowd with each repetition, and Cyrus could detect hints of rage. Whether they were directed to the criminals in question or the city guards, he could not quite tell.
“Oh, what the hells?!” Alaric's voice broke over the crowd as the Chadwicke Thornton was lifted up onto his barrel, noose already secured around his neck. His face was red from crying, evident even at this distance, blonde locks curling around his cheeks as the crowd let out an uproar—
By Cyrus's reckoning, Chadwicke Thornton could not have been more than ten years of age.
“—Leesa Broughton, guilty of slattery and sedition—”
“This is ridiculous!” Alaric's voice crackled again as a woman in a worn and torn dress was shoved up onto a barrel, the noose tightened around the gallows to remove the slack as she let out a plaintive cry that was lost under the crowd noise.
“Hangin' a whore?” someone shouted a dozen paces from Cyrus. “Whut sort o' justice is this?”
“Yep, Malpravus has got us figured out,” Vaste said. “This is definitely an ambush, and if we do so much as lift a sword we're stepping into it like an idiot drunkard laying a foot into a bear trap—”
“—Berneece Entwistle, guilty of thievery, slattery and sedition—”
This provoked another outraged roar from the crowd as a girl of no more than six was hoisted up onto the last barrel.
“Welp, we're doing this,” Vaste said, and he shed his cloak without another word. “You take whatever comes from the left, Birissa and I will take what comes from the right—”
“Oh, no,” Shirri said, though it was nearly lost to Cyrus's ears under the throaty roar of anger from the crowd-turned-mob.
“Vaste, bend over,” Cyrus called.
“This is the setting in which you finally discover the joy of my arse?” Vaste asked, whirling on him. “Well, I won't have it. The time for that was a thousand years ago, when this could have become 'Vaste Square'. You choose, you lose, Mr. General Savior-God—”
“I will not stand for this injustice!” Alaric's howl barely broke over the crowd. His sword was already in hand and he was fiercely shoving his way through. Mazirin stood in his shadow, watching the roiling crowd, all focused ahead on the spectacle at the gallows.
Cyrus kicked Vaste – somewhat lightly – in the belly and the troll folded over, hitting his knees. With a light-step up, Cyrus jumped to his back and shed his cloak. With the whisper of ancient words, he cast a spell to magnify his voice and yelled:
“Hark, Reikonos! I am Cyrus Davidon—”
The crowd whirled on him, all attention on the gallows forgotten, every voice quieted.
“—And I have had enough of this shit!” He bellowed, thrusting his sword toward the gallows. He could see the pale flush on the faces of the city guards as the crowd turned on them as one.
“Get off me!” Vaste shouted as Cyrus leapt over him, over Alaric, who was still struggling his way to the front. The crowd cleared space for him, people throwing themselves out of his way as he came in for a light, Falcon's Essence-enhanced landing some twenty feet before the gallows.
“Free the prisoners!” Cyrus shouted, voice carrying over the crowd. A roar greeted him, complete accord, as the crowd surged toward the gallows platform.
The mad rush of chaos lasted only a second before starker, louder noise interrupted it, echoing over the square like midday thunder—
Gunfire.
Chapter 14
Cyrus ducked his head just in time as bullets began to ricochet off his armor. Clouds of smoke were puffing from the eaves of every rooftop surrounding the square. A circular firing squad lay atop each, pounding down upon him with everything they had, bullets hitting his armor and bouncing freely off.
A woman next to him screamed, reeling away, blood spurting from four different wounds in her chest and neck.
Beside him a man keeled over, crimson streaking its way down his nose.
“Get away from me!” he shouted, shoving away any who grew too close as he bolted for the gallows platform. Leaping up, he kept his head down, keenly aware of the pangs of bullets hitting his helm like fat, merciless raindrops. The volume of fire slackened in a moment, the rifleman taking aim at him all spent – for the moment.
Cyrus was left facing the dozen city guards arrayed on the gallows platform. Already, he had Rodanthar in hand, and waved it at the first two who stormed at him—
Blood flew, heads flew, guts flew. It was hardly his prettiest sword stroke, but it fulfilled its duty, and his head remained down, helm protecting him from the elevated fire of the riflemen all about.
“Save the prisoners!” Vara shouted, landing next to him on the platform. With a commanding stroke she severed a guard from his life – and also his lower body – her own head ducked down against fire. A bullet bounced off her shining breastplate like a hailstone as Cyrus watched. She met his gaze. “So far the ambush does not seem well-planned.”
“This is only the first turn of the wheel,” Cyrus said, moving to counter three guards in black garb with axes and spears. “There will be more.”
“And we shall break that wheel upon Malpravus's bony skeleton,” Alaric shouted, sprinting past Cyrus and cutting down two of the three guards, his cloak gone and Aterum rising and falling with rage.
“Best not to get overconfident,” Cyrus said. All around the stage the crowd was moving; most were running away at the sound of the gunshots. A few had fallen, were bleeding, wounded, around them–
But some were clad in the black of Machine coats, and they remained, passing through the remnants of the fleeing crowd like droplets of water through a sieve.
Cyrus watched them move, keeping his eyes poised for threats. The stage was now surrounded by them, though they grappled with a few in the crowd who'd risen up at Cyrus's call. Two such men were squaring with Machine thugs just beneath the gallows, beside some strange artifice covered over by a massive tarp. As Cyrus's eyes slid off it, it began to move—
The tarp fell aside, a flash of yellow and grey remained—
And there stood the largest troll Cyrus had ever laid eyes on. The height of Vaste and half, the big fellow leered down at Cyrus with protruding fangs that seemed almost dripping saliva. He locked eyes with Cyrus, his body sheathed in strange armor, covered over in addition with a cloak. His sword was broad, and easily the height of Vara. Their eyes met, and the troll did something most unexpected—
He bowed.
“We meet at last, fabled warrior,” the troll said, coming back up so swiftly that it startled Cyrus that a being so large could be so devilishly quick. “I am Qualleron, of Prenasia – warrior, hunter of bounties and pelts, slayer of the worthy.” He did smile, but his eyes nearly gleamed with joy at each word. “And I have come to collect your head.”
Chapter 15
Vaste
“Oh my,” Vaste said, staring at the giant of a yellow troll leering at Cyrus from just the other side of the stage. Apparently he'd been hiding there during the entire proceedings, waiting to reveal himself until the appropriate moment. The fact that he'd singled out Cyrus boded ill, especially given his rather grand size.
“Don't lose your courage now, luv,” Birissa said, leaping onto the stage and landing with a quelling shock that sent almost everyone on it rattling to their knees or worse. Two steps and she had positioned herself between Cyrus and this Qualleron of Prenasia. “I am Birissa the Wrathful.” Her sword pointed down at her foe. “If you want him, you go through me, big boy, and I doubt you're man enough for that.”
Qualleron just stared at her for a moment, then made a loud grunt of agreement. “It is good to have many foes. Fight with honor, Lady Birissa!” And he leapt up to join her, to bring his blade against hers–
The stage collapsed as he landed upon it, sending all who were there down a good two feet in the crash.
Along with that, down came all the barrels that the prisoners were standing on, rather more gently than perhaps intended by the executioners.
Vaste watched the whole thing unfold in a sort of slow, terrifying panic. Everything they'd just i
ntervened to do was undone in an instant by that yellow goon. All he could think to say in the midst of this utter pandemonium was one thing, as he ducked a stray board that went flying past his head.
“Damned trolls,” Vaste muttered, turning to try and salvage the situation.
Chapter 16
Alaric
The stage collapsed and all hell broke loose, though he was hard pressed to determine which had come first. Boards broke, supports cracked, Alaric's feet departed from beneath him along with whatever he was standing on, and he came crashing down in the most curious free fall he'd experienced in – well, a while, at least. It was short, and ended with a rough crash against the ground, face up and staring into a smoky sky.
Gunfire followed as night follows day, and like he'd seen Cyrus do upon the warrior's charge of the platform, Alaric put his head down, trying to roll to his belly. Then he'd be armored and protected against the incoming fire and could get back to the important work of saving the—
Legs danged around him, the gallows still standing in spite of the collapse of the platform. Choking noises, faint, almost impossible to hear, somehow strained through around the tumult.
Alaric sat up in a panic, lunging for the nearest set of legs. They were thick, trunk-like, and dangling along with their owner from a length of rope.
“Help them!” he managed to get out, trying to save the poor bastard dancing on air above him. He lifted, sticking his helm up rather impolitely into the crotch of the poor soul, little attention paid for the dinging of private parts against his hard helm. A sudden, sharp intake of breath above him told him he'd hit, but also that he had relieved the pressure of the rope against the prisoner's throat as the gasp faded to heavy breaths.
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