by Jeff Gunzel
“Go. Get out of here,” Assirra whimpered, skipping a dirty spoon along the stone floor. It clanged against one of the bars, sending the startled rat scampering away. She could remember a time when seeing a rat that size would have made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but that seemed so long ago. Rats were the least of her problems now. Sniffling, she tried to hold back the next round of tears that had haunted her for days. It seemed as if all she did was cry these days. How long had they been down here? She could probably just count the trays, seeing as they only got one per day. But in truth, she really didn’t want to know.
“Assirra?” came Thatra’s tender voice from another cell. Whenever she spoke to Assirra, her voice was thick with adoring admiration. It was only then that Assirra realized she had started crying again. “I am still here for you, High Cleric. Please do not forget that.” This warrior’s unwavering devotion brought on even more shame. Thatra’s predicament was no different than her own, yet somehow she always found the strength to coddle her leader. Her weak, spineless leader, Assirra thought, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“I’m fine,” Assirra lied, trying to keep her voice steady for dignity’s sake. “I just wish they would stop all that chanting outside. I hear them in my sleep—when I sleep, that is.” It was true. They could hear the people’s protests day and night, a never-ending rumble of angry chants. It had been going on every day since the ghatin attack, and today was no different. Although, right now it seemed to be even louder than usual. There were trumpet blasts and beating drums along with the usual shouting.
“Sounds like they be getting a bit restless out there,” Owen grumbled from another cell. “I got the feeling that we’re not going to be waiting much longer.”
“None of that matters,” Liam said, pacing around in his own cell. He had already accepted his fate days ago. Their lives would be forfeit for crimes they didn’t commit just to satisfy an angry mob. And as usual, the spilled blood of the innocent would somehow pass for justice. It was a foregone conclusion, but he was prepared to face his end with dignity. But what troubled him had nothing to do with their own fates. “It is Viola we should be concerned about. For all we know, the ghatins have captured her already!”
“If the ghatins had her, we would know it by now,” Owen reasoned.
“Of course, you’re right,” Liam confirmed, pacing about even faster now. Had the ghatins already broken the curse, the entire realm would have already fallen into turmoil. “But it is only a matter of time. And we can do nothing to help her as long as we’re here.”
“We are not dead yet!” Thatra said, kicking the bars of her cell.
“Easily remedied.”
Hearing the voice at the top of the steps, all four of them deflated at once as their spirits sank. The king hadn’t paid them a visit in days, and they could only think of one reason for him to show up now. Their time had come. Heavy boots thumped down the steps, along with the unmistakable clinking of armor rattling with each step. Accompanied by at least a dozen soldiers, the king stood before them dressed in some of the finest clothing they had ever seen. His blue robe with feathery white fur at the collar matched his drooping blue hat with a black rim.
The soldiers stood like statues, eyes fixed on nothing as they stared at the opposite walls to either side. Lined up in tight rows, they seemed determined to protect the king even though he was perfectly safe. “Do you hear that?” Milo asked, pointing in a general upward direction. They could hear the booming voice of the speaker as he riled the crowd into a frenzy with his promise of death. But it was not the speaker the king was referring to.
“For the first time in what feels like years,” the king clarified, “they are not calling for my blood. They are calling for yours.”
“That is because you have deceived them,” Liam accused, wrapping his hands around the bars of his cell. “You needed scapegoats to draw attention away from yourself, and now you have them.”
“That is only partially true,” the king said, approaching Liam’s cell in slow, plodding steps. Two soldiers stepped aside to allow him access. Standing face to face with the mystic, he folded his hands down near his waist in a nonthreatening manner. “You see,” he spoke in a hushed tone, “it is not I who needed the scapegoat. It is the people of this city who demand blood. If it were up to me, I would release all of you.”
Liam’s pointed eyebrows rose straight up. He knew the king was telling the truth, and that alone astounded him.
“What would you have me do?” the king continued. “I know it would be best to set you free, allowing you to go protect Viola. But what would I tell thousands of people who needed someone to blame for the travesty that has befallen our city? Should I explain your story to them? How shall I go about telling them that if you don’t protect that creature, these ghatins might capture her, break some curse, then return to our city unimpeded to finish what they started? Can you tell me in simple terms right now how I might go about doing such a thing, and not sounding crazy in the process?”
Liam sighed and drew himself away from the bars. Even to his own ears it sounded like complete madness, and he knew it was true. The king was right. His options were extremely limited.
“Just make me one promise, then,” Liam muttered. The light in his eyes seemed to go dim. There was no fight left in the old man. “After we’re gone, promise me you will send a scouting party to go search for Viola. We just need to make sure she is safe.”
The king drew closer to the bars. “I’ll make that decision after you’re gone,” he sneered, his usual malice returning. No doubt he was just happy to get the city’s people to hate someone other than himself. Viola was not a priority. “Guards, take them!”
One at a time their cage doors were opened, the girls taken first. Soldiers shackled their hands and feet, then surrounded them with blades drawn in case either of them tried anything. Seeing Owen as the biggest threat, they opened his door last once the others were secure. But the big man didn’t resist. What would be the point? There didn’t seem to be much difference between getting skewed here like a cornered rat and dying on the end of a rope. Both were honorless as far as he was concerned.
With all the prisoners secure, it was time to go satisfy the mob. They were led up the steps and out into the streets. The moment they came into view, the crowd exploded into a roar of taunting threats. Even the speaker who was still whirling through his energetic speech had to raise his voice, practically shouting just to be heard. But with all the attention focused on the approaching prisoners, he might as well have not even been there.
After crying for days, Assirra had believed she was incapable of shedding another tear. She was wrong. The sight of the gallows just ahead, four ropes already tied into nooses swaying with breeze, was just too much for her. She wailed, her knees giving way as she dropped to the ground. The crowd taunted her by mimicking her cry. Some even threw themselves down while others threw spoiled fruit and small stones at her.
“You must get up,” Thatra said, trying her best to shield Assirra with her own body. But with her hands and feet shackled, getting her body in position proved to be difficult. She watched helplessly as a stone popped off the back of Assirra’s head, blood flowing from the cut immediately. “Monsters!” Thatra shrieked, turning in the direction where the stone had come from. But with so many grinning faces, it was hard to discern who the guilty party was.
“Says the creature with curly horns,” taunted a young man near the front. “Hey, everyone, look at the goat!” He threw a stone of his own but it sailed wide of Thatra’s face. She lunged, causing those in the immediate area to scatter. But when the chains around her feet tightened, she fell forward, smacking the ground face first.
Thatra looked up, one side of her bruised face covered with dirt. “You are monsters,” she growled, spitting a bit of grit from her mouth. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Cruelty is in your very nature. Even after we saved your pathetic city from the ghatins, you s
till wish to see us hang? Is there no end to your bloodlust?”
“Saved us?” the young man said. “You led them here! You’re the reason my parents are dead.” Grunts of agreement circled around him as fists pumped the air. “We all lost loved ones because of what you did!”
“So you’ve been told,” Liam said, his voice calm and subdued as he struggled to help Thatra back to her feet. He looked at the young man with no malice or judgment in his eyes. “I am sorry for your loss, lad. It pains me to know what every man, woman, and child has already endured in this city. But I also know that your judgment is clouded with pain and sorrow.” He was talking to everyone now. “Someone must pay for your suffering, yes? Someone must be held responsible, even if those accused did everything they could to save this city.” The response from the townsfolk was mixed. Some scorned him, flashing obscene hand gestures, while others grew quiet as they considered his words.
Liam returned his attention to the boy. “Years from now you will look back on this day with a fresh perspective when remembering the events you took part in. I will be long gone, and since you will need to hear these words, I will say them now. I do not hold you responsible for what others have put in your head. I forgive you. Remember my words, lad, and know they are sincere.” The boy looked both conflicted and confused, but said nothing.
“Get moving!” ordered one of the soldiers, giving the chain a hard tug to move them along. Sounds grew faint and distant. Faces seemed to fade into black as they drew closer to the gallows. Awareness heightened as fear gripped their hearts like an iron glove, every sensation coming through clear as a bell. The steps groaning beneath their feet, the gentle breeze picking up ever so slightly, licking the cool sweat beaded on the backs of their necks. Even the call of a bird perched on a nearby rooftop seemed to be calling out to them, sending a warning that had come far too late. With each heavy breath counting down to their last, the present had become a crystal-clear world they would only be part of a short while longer.
Forced to stand over individual trapdoors, nooses were lowered and settled around each of their necks. The speaker continued his wild accusations—traitors, devils, justice would be served. The deceitful lies were only meant to give closure to those who witnessed the execution. They needed to walk away believing that the deaths of these four had somehow improved their lives.
When the speaker stopped talking and the crowd fell silent, the king marched up onto the gallows. “Have the prisoners any last words?” he shouted, speaking to all of them at once. He raised his hand, getting ready to signal the man holding the lever that would drop open the trapdoors. The king seemed to be more interested in getting on with this than hearing any last statements.
Suddenly, there came a disturbance near the back of the crowd, a sort of shuffling wave of movement causing heads to turn. It was hard to imagine what could possibly be distracting from a public execution, but there was definitely some kind of commotion going on. A horn blew, and the people began parting to either side of the street. Outraged, the king watched as a group of scouts came charging through the crowd on horseback. How dare they?! What could possibly be so important that they couldn’t wait a few more minutes? He would have their heads for this!
Dismounting quickly, they all dropped to one knee in front of the gallows, save for one man who scurried up onto the platform. Growling like an animal, the king reached for his sword as the man approached him. So enraged he was by the blatant interruption that his first impulse was to slay the scout himself.
“Sir!” the scout yelped. Ignoring the king’s threatening pose, he ran straight up to him and dropped to one knee. That alone gave the king pause. His intent was obvious, yet the man didn’t react at all. Who didn’t fear death? The man was either insane or desperate beyond comprehension. “They’re coming!” he rasped, his voice hoarse from nonstop riding and a lack of water.
“Who? Who’s coming?” the king asked, sliding his blade back into its sheath. He knew terror when he saw it, and this man’s genuine terror was enough to make him forget all about the bewildering interruption.
Abandoning all standard protocol, the scout shoved a message into the king’s hand before leaping up to stand at Milo’s side. Such aggressive movements around a king were unheard of. He whispered in the king’s ear, an urgent, babbling hiss as Milo read the message. The king... The ever-confident, unflappable ruler of Shadowfen suddenly turned an ashy pale color. Pressing his lips together to keep them from quivering, he looked to the side of the gallows and made a slashing motion with his hand.
Liam and company closed their eyes, prepared for what was to come. After a series of whooshing, crackling sounds, they dropped, cut ropes hanging loose around their necks. “Take them back to their cells!” the king ordered. Regaining some measure of composure, the king ran up to the speaker and began shouting into his face while shaking him by the collar. Then, with a sharp gesture, he pointed out to the confused crowd before heading off to follow the rest of the guards.
“Go!” barked one of the guards, shoving Assirra in the back of the head.
“What’s going on?” Thatra asked as she and the others were being shoved through the streets. Whatever it was, it was the only reason they were still alive. Not surprisingly, she got no answer from the guards. It was likely they didn’t know either.
From behind, they could hear the speaker, his normally clear, booming voice now sputtering and cracking as he tried to deliver the king’s personal message. Struggling mightily to speak clearly, he too was obviously quite shaken. Being rushed along as they were, they could only hear bits and pieces of his rambling. Go back to your homes— attack imminent —barricade the doors... Although the exact message was anything but clear, the meaning most certainly was. The whole city was on lockdown.
* * *
After the companions were thrown back into their cells, the guards hurried back up the steps, the door slamming shut with a bang. Perhaps they had not been spared exactly, but whatever was going on had at least bought them some precious time.
“Is everyone all right?” Owen called out. He got back three muttered acknowledgments in return.
“So now what do we do?” Thatra asked, pressing her face against the bars of her cell, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of her friends.
“Whatever is happening, it has the whole city on high alert,” Liam answered. He got a good look at the king when he read that message from the scout. That was a clear look of terror, on a man who wasn’t afraid of anything. “Whatever danger is threatening this city, the king is more than preoccupied by it. He has bigger things on his mind than us. We must take advantage of what little time it has bought us.”
“How much time?” Assirra asked. “A day. A month? They’re still going to hang us sooner or later.”
“Right ye are,” Owen agreed. “So we better put our heads together and start thinking of a way out of here.”
“An escape plan, yes,” Liam said, tapping his palm against one of the bars. “But there is no way out of here. Not in the sense you mean, anyway. If I can just get a chance to speak with the king one on one, perhaps I can bargain with him. If we can just convince him that—”
He went silent when they heard the door open, followed by the sound of stomping boots coming down the steps. It was the king, surrounded by an entourage of armed men. These weren’t his regular soldiers but his personal bodyguard, armed from head to toe. At the king’s back stood the red giant, Diovok. The shaman stood tall like a mighty statue, as always his face hidden behind a black-and-red mask. So still, so deathly silent, if he wasn’t already standing on his feet one might suspect he was not even alive.
Hands clasped behind his back, the king looked about as if searching for something. “Leave us,” he said after a long moment of silence. His bodyguards glanced at one another, none too pleased with the idea of leaving their king down here alone with the prisoners. But they didn’t have to like it; that was the order given. Reluctantly, they did as the
y were told. “You too,” the king muttered over his shoulder. Diovok looked down at him, his surprised shock nearly radiating right through his mask. But after only a brief hesitation, he too followed the others back up the steps. The king stood still, waiting until he heard the door close.
“Why do I get the feeling ye got yerself in a bit of trouble?” Owen said first, his mouth gaping open to display a broken-toothed grin. The king sighed and sat down on a stool, his head clunking back against the stone as he looked up at the ceiling. The image was so strange, almost unsettling. The king of Shadowfen dressed in fine silk clothing, sitting on a splintered stool in a dank dungeon that smelled of mold. He looked tired, beaten.
“Whose troubles could possibly be worse than a man sentenced to hang?” the king asked, his fingers rubbing slow circles around his temples. Yes, he did look tired indeed. “Consider who you are speaking to before loosening that tongue of yours.” He sat up and blew out a deep breath. “Remember, I alone have the power to reverse that sentence.”
“Is that what you’re offering!?” Assirra asked, rushing up to the bars of her cell, face pushing through as far as she could.
“Shh,” Thatra shushed from her adjacent cell. This was not a time to appear weak or vulnerable.
“Out with it,” Liam said, having seen enough already. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he knew the king was ready to deal. “We are alive for a reason, and I find it hard to believe it has anything to do with the goodness of your heart. We know Shadowfen is in danger, so let’s not play this game any longer. Stop pretending that you have the upper hand.”
The king jumped up and rushed towards Liam’s cell. He glared at the mystic, his eyes filled with flame. He was not used to being at a disadvantage, especially to slaves sentenced to death. “Perhaps I’ll have you executed right now, old man!” he growled.