A large pole, twice as high as a man, had been driven into the ground close to the riverbank and a platform constructed around it. Wood and brush was stacked up against it. A series of barrels, bound together with rope, served as a rudimentary set of steps.
Not for the first time today, Lauterbur wondered how he had found himself in his present predicament. His heart started to quicken and a sick feeling formed in the pit of his stomach as the realisation of what was about to happen fought its way into his mind.
A shove in the back from a guard sent Lauterbur stumbling forward. The crowd jeered at first and then became even less hospitable. The first object to be launched at him was a rotten apple, which missed its target but found one of the guards, hitting him square in the face. Then, the bombardment began in earnest. Everything from stale food to animal faeces started to be thrown, but most of the higher velocity missiles missed Lauterbur, catching either one of the guards or other townsfolk.
The captain shouted to the guards to pick up the pace and spurred his horse past them into the crowd, his charging steed creating a passage, for the guards to follow.
The three guards grabbed Lauterbur and ran him to the front of the mob where they were met by ten more armed, blue-cloaked men, using their shields to hold back the violent throng.
As Lauterbur made it to the edge of the wooden platform, he saw a small, portly man in dark-red robes and a silver skullcap, standing at its base, grinning sadistically. His robes bore the eagle insignia of the realm of Varahil, along with the mark of his Shadow Watcher unit embroidered in gold thread.
The colour drained from Lauterbur’s face when he saw the robed man. He was the unit’s high priest, a religious fanatic whose job it was to administer justice on behalf of the temple he was aligned to – justice that culminated in the execution of those who were born without a shadow.
The high priest climbed the barrel-steps to the platform and addressed the crowd.
‘Silence.’
He moved his hands up and down, his palms flat, gesturing to calm the mob.
‘I said silence,’ he shouted.
The crowd fell quiet, quickly realising that their raucous behaviour was only holding up the proceedings.
‘I wish to thank you, the brave people of the town of Coingdale, for your assistance in apprehending and incarcerating this demon,’ the high priest said. ‘You have, in no small measure, saved your town, your lives, and the lives of those you hold dear.’ He pointed at Lauterbur. ‘For harbouring one of these monsters risks incurring the wrath of the gods themselves.’
The townsfolk looked at each other and nodded, clearly hanging on the high priest’s every word.
‘We must hunt these aberrations of nature down wherever we find them,’ the high priest proclaimed, his large, round face getting redder. ‘To alert the authorities of their existence is your civic duty, as decreed by Prince Tiberius the Pious, of the realm of Varahil.’
The crowd cheered at the mention of the prince’s name, and the high priest paused in order to milk the applause.
‘Now, bring forth this heretic,’ he said to the guards.
They grasped him tightly around the upper arms and lifted him off the ground. With his feet dangling, he was marched to the base of the platform.
‘What is your name, accursed creature?’ the high priest demanded, looking down at him.
Lauterbur was too exhausted and dispirited to raise his head and answer. He then felt his hair being pulled and his neck jerked involuntarily upwards so that he was facing the priest.
‘Answer him,’ the guard commanded.
Lauterbur tried his best to focus and cleared his throat, causing him great pain.
‘Johan. Johan Smit,’ he said wearily.
‘Johan Smit,’ the high priest began, ‘I offer you a chance to ask the god who fathered you for forgiveness. Ask him to give us a sign that you should be spared and we will grant you mercy, for we are all servants of the gods. Now, is there anything you wish to say?’
Lauterbur tried as best he could to open his swollen eyes, looking the high priest up and down when he finally did. Blood trickled from his nose into his mouth with that unmistakeable metallic taste that he had never quite got used to. He spat out the blood and spoke.
‘Were you always this fat?’
A few of the guards’ lips twitched.
The priest’s face went puce and he ordered the prisoner to be tied to the stake.
As the guards dragged Lauterbur to the barrel stairs, the crowd cheered again. They carried him to the top of the platform and then propped him against the pole. Another guard threw them a coil of rope and they bound the prisoner’s, ankles and knees to the pole, so that he would not slide down if he lost consciousness.
Finally, they tied his neck to the stake, keeping his body straight and preventing him from dodging any objects that might be thrown from the crowd. Lauterbur winced as the rope dug into some of his open wounds.
The high priest took a small book from his robes and quickly thumbed through the pages.
‘Johan Smit,’ he said loudly, addressing the crowd more than the prisoner. ‘You have been found to be a shadowless – bastard-child of the gods. You pose a threat to the righteous people of this realm and are an insult to the very gods themselves. I have been charged with the task of tracking you and your ill-fated kin down. And so, I hereby condemn you to death by way of burning.’
I really hope this is over quickly, Lauterbur thought, panicking at what he imagined the next few moments might hold.
He recalled some of the other ways in which his demise had been met, most of which had been quick, one had even been painless. Lauterbur dealt with death in the same casual manner that he dealt with most things. But he was concerned about the method by which it happened. Bralvadier was right, though, he had never been killed this way before. Sure, he had been incinerated by Bulros while trying to make his way to the city of Dragonov, but that was dragon-fire: that was practically instantaneous. This would be a lot slower and a lot more painful.
Once they had him secured, the guards and high priest went down the barrel stairs, cut the ropes binding them and placed the barrels under the platform. The other guards moved more wood over to the execution site. Bushes, logs, old furniture, broken cart wheels; anything they could find that was of no use and flammable, got put against the platform.
While this was going on, the townsfolk were again pelting Lauterbur with rotten fruit and vegetables. Unable to move his head, he closed his eyes as rotten turnips and potatoes flew past him. Even when the mob ran out of things to throw, they still shouted obscenities.
Lauterbur looked down upon them from the platform and struggled to understand where their hostility for him came from. He felt a great deal of sorrow about the hatred etched on the faces of the men, women and children of the town of Coingdale, hatred for something they did not fully understand, but were happy to be enraged by, on the say-so of an overweight preacher in an ill-fitting skullcap.
Glancing down, he saw four of the guards in blue cloaks gathered in a huddle around a brazier, lighting flame torches.
It won’t be long now, he realised.
The sun had dipped behind the hills in the distance as Lauterbur fought to stay conscious as the blood loss took its toll. A cool breeze moved the grass gently, to and fro, as the first stars appeared in the northern sky. The high priest stepped forward from the crowd.
‘Get this done,’ he snapped at the guards. ‘It will be dark soon.’
Holding their torches aloft, the four guards moved to the bonfire and stood around it in a square.
The high priest walked up to face Lauterbur and raised his left hand. He closed his eyes briefly and muttered a prayer. When he had finished, his hand still raised, he turned to the torchbearers.
‘On my command.’
The guards
held their torches close to the bottom of the platform. A drum began to beat, slowly at first, but the rhythm got faster and faster, then stopped. The high priest dropped his hand and in unison the guards plunged their torches into the pyre.
Lauterbur felt cold and was shaking. Every time he began to pass out his body would slump and the rope around his neck make him gag, waking him in a spluttering, coughing fit. He stared at the high priest through the dizziness, concentrating on his face, his voice and his mannerisms. Fighting to stay conscious, he tried to take in every detail about this most recent nemesis.
One day very soon, I’m going to kill you, he promised himself.
Looking him in the eye, Lauterbur quietly repeated everything the high priest had said, every small thing he had revealed about himself, every crumb of information he had inadvertently let slip about his life. The dark red robes represented the fire god, Malum, the accent was that of someone from Culyá, the most southern city in Varahil, and the silver skullcap was indicative of an order of seers. If Lauterbur were to have his revenge, he would need to remember as much of this as he could.
The flames rose from the bonfire causing grey smoke to billow high up into the sky. The crackling of the freshly cut green wood sent sparks spiralling above the crowd before being extinguished in the cold air as steam hissed from the damp grass and bushes. Lauterbur glanced downwards and saw the glowing flames through the small, hastily constructed, wooden platform and smelled the acrid stench of the smoke. His lower legs were the first to feel the heat as the wood beneath him caught fire. The majority of the material, which was in the centre of the bonfire, ignited, and the four guards who had lit the fire stood back.
The flames started making their way through the platform. Instinctively, Lauterbur tried to shuffle his feet away from the fire, but they were tied tight to the wooden pole. The heat was sending hot gases up though the wood, searing his nose and throat as he tried to breathe. His body convulsed as he began to choke. Suddenly the flames punched through the platform and ignited his clothing; scorching pain shot up his legs and he screamed in agony as his skin bubbled and blistered. The fire worked its way to his upper body and in a matter of seconds he was ablaze. He threw back his head as flames engulfed his body. Even as pain tore at his very being, the heat charring his skin and boiling his bodily fluids, he writhed at the stake trying to escape the flames.
And then, slowly, the writhing stopped.
Halfway up the hill, hiding within the foliage of a fallen silver birch, a pair of beady eyes watched intently. Bralvadier sat and nibbled on the dried meat that he had managed to grab before the trouble had started back in Coingdale. He stared down from within the canopy, as a loud cheer went up from the crowd when the bonfire ignited, followed by their laughter and mockery. Their claps and jeers accompanied the crackling wood and the blood-curdling screams of his friend in a gruesome harmony.
Bralvadier furiously chewed on another piece of dried meat. He had witnessed Lauterbur’s death in full, from the high priest giving the order to execute him to his immolation.
Barbaric bastard, call yourself a man of the gods? he thought. What’s he ever done to you? You’ll pay for this, mark my words.
A sinister look crept across Bralvadier’s face and heinous thoughts flooded his young mind.
Down below him, as darkness crept across the valley, the townsfolk danced around the bonfire in celebration. Children laughed and threw fresh wood onto the fire. They played tag and hid in amongst the nearby vegetation, until finally, when the fire began to die down, everyone headed back up the hill, in the direction of Coingdale.
Bralvadier watched as the guards turned the prison wagon around and drove it up the hill. He waited until the horses’ hooves were no longer audible before creeping out from his cover. Making his way down the hill he moved from bush to bush, waiting each time and checking for noise from below. When he was satisfied that it was safe he crept closer to the site of the killing, stopping short of the clearing. From there he watched the fire burn down.
For hours he sat, transfixed by the flames dancing, his mind wandering to the townsfolk safe in their beds. He ruminated on their ignorance, their stupidity and their bloodlust. Bralvadier pulled his cloak up around his neck to keep out the night chill, every so often taking his hand out from under it to pop a bit of dried meat into his mouth, and he waited.
Bralvadier was awakened by a small bird taking flight from the hedge beside him.
‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve missed his return.’
He checked around for signs of life. When he was sure there was no one looking, he grabbed his backpack and crawled out from the bushes. The bonfire was almost out, save for a few embers. He scampered towards the pyre and looked to the east. It was still dark, but wouldn’t be for long.
‘C’mon, c’mon, hurry up,’ he exclaimed, looking at the bonfire and then to the east again.
He paced up and down, his gaze darting between the ashes and the eastern sky. And then, as he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, the event he had been waiting for happened.
The first rays of sunlight entered the valley, illuminating the clearing by the riverbank. Bralvadier heard the creaking of wood and the rustling of debris and, when he turned towards the fire, he saw a fist and forearm punching their way through the pile of ashes.
A grey light shone from the back of the fist, in the shape of the number eleven, before fading.
Clambering through the execution site, Bralvadier reached for the hand and pulled Lauterbur from the cinders. Lauterbur stood naked, covered from head to toe in fine ash.
‘Who, who are you?’ Lauterbur asked, trying to remove dust and burnt material from his mouth.
‘There’s no time to explain,’ Bralvadier stated, looking over his shoulder towards the hill. ‘Come with me if you want to live.’
Bralvadier guided him to the riverbank where Lauterbur washed in the fast-flowing water before getting dressed in clothing he was given. Bralvadier could scarcely believe that the man he had witnessed being burnt at the stake only a few hours before, now stood in front of him with not as much as a scratch on him. They moved further along the water’s edge and, after crossing at a ford a few miles upriver, slipped into Greywolf Forest and made their escape.
They travelled through the forest until the late afternoon, staying well away from the tracks and paths. The pair did not speak, but when Bralvadier looked round he noticed the confusion on Lauterbur’s face; his clear grey-coloured eyes having the bewildered and uncomprehending expression of a child when it sees things for the first time.
‘There’s a pile of overhangin’ rocks up ahead, we’ll camp there, Master Hess,’ the boy said.
Lauterbur wrapped his fingers around the shoulder straps of his backpack and trudged onwards.
Upon reaching the rocks they set up camp. Lauterbur watched the boy carefully unpack his bedroll and prepare his camping gear and then copied what he did.
Bralvadier started a small fire; he cooked some carrots and beans and then shared his meagre provisions with Lauterbur who looked at the first few spoonfuls cautiously before eating them. They hunched over the fire warming their hands and pulling their cloaks tight, preparing for the cold night ahead.
‘What can you remember?’ the lad asked, breaking the silence.
‘Pain,’ Lauterbur said, solemnly.
He looked at the boy.
‘Who are you?’
He had the same blank expression on his face as earlier.
‘I’m Bralvadier, your squire. At least I was until you told me that you weren’t really a knight. Now I guess, I guess I’m your manservant and travellin’ companion.’
‘How do I know you?’
‘You walked on to our farmland four years ago. It was early mornin’ and I’d been herdin’ my father’s sheep out to the meadows when I met you on the track. You’d been
attacked by bandits who were terrorisin’ the lands for months. Your clothes had the signs of an attack; all cut up and blood-stained. But there wasn’t a mark on you. My family took you in and looked after you and when you’d recovered your memory, I decided to go adventurin’ with you. Told me grand tales of gods and dragons, magical lands and untold riches, you did. Didn’t tell me we’d be always on the run, half-starvin’ to death. I mean, I know it’s not your fault an’ all, but still.’
Bralvadier leaned into the corner of the overhang for his backpack and reached inside it. He pulled out a bundle of parchment and unravelled it. Finding the piece he wanted, he cleared his throat.
‘Here’s a letter. It was in your pocket when I first found you on my family’s farmland. I’ll read it:
‘I know you cannot remember much,’ he said, reading slowly from the page, over-pronouncing every word. ‘But your memory will return. Your name is Lauterbur Hess and you are the son of Salamoc, the God of the Wind. You are two hundred and eighty-nine years old and are immortal. Every time you die or are killed your body returns from death with the first rays of the rising sun. The only thing that will prevent this is if you are slain by the god Salamoc himself.’
‘How many times exactly have I died?’ Lauterbur demanded.
The boy folded the parchment and looked down, fitfully glancing up at Lauterbur.
‘How many times have I died, Bralvadier?’ Lauterbur asked sternly.
‘The burnin’ last night makes it eleven. Every time you revive, a light appears on the back of your hand with the number of times you’ve died,’ Bralvadier replied sheepishly.
‘Eleven times,’ Lauterbur muttered, shivering and rubbing his arms.
A sudden flashback of his execution, lasting no more than a second, flickered through his mind. Lauterbur shuddered, imagining he could feel the flames working their way up his body.
Shadowless Page 4