Bishta the Black

by Jada Fisher

That definitely showed how ignorant his father was. What more could he have wanted? Dorrick had been the top of all his classes, had received endless praise from about every instructor he’d ever learned under. He’d mastered every weapon, every potion, every language, every skill that they’d thrown at him. He didn’t know what else he was supposed to do.

  There was only one thing he couldn’t do, and that was bring his mother back. Everything else he’d been perfect at—the perfect knight, the perfect son—but he knew now that things had been rigged from the start.

  “You were a disappointment,” his father continued. “But even I could see how much you loved the order, loved your comrades. I won’t deny you that. You showed tremendous loyalty and devotion to the cause.”

  Huh, praise now? It was years too late.

  “Never would I have thought you capable of betraying our cause, of killing a fellow knight, no matter how disillusioned you may have been with me.” Vanter turned to face his son. “And yet here we are.” He let his arms fall to his sides, hands curling into fists.

  “So I ask again: why…did you…do it?”

  Dorrick looked back at the man and felt a bit of air deflate from him. In a way, he understood this level of disappointment, because he was right. Even when he was first exiled, he loved the knights and what they stood for. He could have never imagined himself harming another knight, let alone killing one. Yet here he was, just as his father said. A traitor and knight-killer.

  And Dorrick had few regrets on that front. Of course, he didn’t want to kill his fellow knights. He didn’t want to hurt or kill anyone for that matter, but what the people of Al-Sevara were doing to the wilds and its denizens, what the order was allowing to happen out here… Dorrick just could not abide by it.

  He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but they left him no choice, so he defended himself and the wilds from their attackers.

  Could he say that to this man, though? This dominating tyrant of a man that thought anything and everything the knights did was without reproach, that everything they did was holy and sacred and couldn’t be questioned. Dorrick couldn’t imagine an explanation or scenario that could convince Vanter Vane of his faults or mistakes.

  Dorrick dropped his eyes, and his bangs fell over his brow. “You are wrong.”

  He kept his gaze on the floor, at his blood splatters and his father’s boots, but he could see the man go rigid with his words. “What was that?” he asked in a scary voice that was treading the line between calm and chaos.

  The young Vane grimaced and looked up at his father to see him eye to eye. “You are wrong! It’s all wrong. The people in the wilds—the humans, tree folk, and spirits—aren’t savage monsters that need to be exterminated. They just want to be left alone to live in peace. Al-Sevara doesn’t get to just take whatever it wants.”

  “I see,” Vanter said, too calm to be good. His fists still shook as he padded around Dorrick and Shandi. “So, your heart and mind have been twisted. Was it by a woman? This seductress perhaps?”

  Shandi didn’t say a word, but he could feel her glare.

  “No one twisted my heart. My eyes were just opened to the truth—one that was withheld from me my whole life.”

  The commander came to a stop between Dorrick and Shandi. “Such ignorance,” he cooed with pity. And it made Dorrick sick. He threw curses at the man who called himself his father but never bothered to do the work that job demanded. Of course, Vanter Vane ignored such a blatant display of uncontrolled emotion.

  “Your soul has been corrupted. Whether by this temptress or another, it has been lost, and there is no saving you, son.”

  He sounded like a self-righteous preacher from the Temple of the Sun. Who the hell did Vanter Vane think he was? Some patron saint of Al-Sevara that had descended from the heavens to rain holy fire on the wilds and all that stood in the way of the city’s progress? It would totally check out if it turned out his father had a god complex.

  His father started to undo his gauntlets and let them fall to the hard-packed earth with a metal clatter. He cracked his knuckles. Here it comes, the snap. Other than being slapped once or twice, his father had never actually beaten him. Physical abuse was not something he could credit the man with. A severe lack of paternal love and affection? Certainly, but abuse was not one of his marks.

  But he was no longer Vanter Vane’s son. He was a traitor to the man, the city, and the order. Dorrick was all but dead to the commander.

  “I cannot save you, but I can punish you for being tempted, for throwing away the one decent quality that you had.”

  Dorrick let his gaze move to the tent flap and the sunlight beyond. He tensed, ready, and worked his jaw. He didn’t doubt his father probably hit like an ox. Vanter was as physically gifted as any knight in the order.

  He thought the blow would come. He even braced himself for it, for the beating that was finally coming.

  But it didn’t come for him.

  His father’s fist hit flesh, but it wasn’t his own. No, it was behind him, with a gasp and cry and the spray of blood. Shandi.

  The first punch landed hard. Dorrick was so stunned that he couldn’t even make a sound. He was confused, and almost sure that he was hallucinating. His father wouldn’t punish Shandi to punish him, would he? He wasn’t that sadistic.

  But then the next fist came, slamming into her cheek with a terrible crack and bloody gasp, and Dorrick knew that he’d made a terrible mistake.

  “Stop it!” he roared as he struggled against his bonds. The rope dug into his skin since they’d stripped him of his armor. It burned and chafed, but he struggled regardless. It did no good. He wasn’t going to get free.

  The commander took a knee at Shandi’s side and grabbed a fistful of her hair. He lifted her head so he could get a better target, and then punched her several times all over her face and head in quick succession. Tears stung at Dorrick’s eyes he thrashed and growled and tried with all his might to break free and attack his father, but it was no use.

  He wasn’t sure how long it went on. In reality, maybe a minute, but it felt like an eternity. Each punch was a hot day that dragged on for hours. Time slowed and slowed, and he could somehow see the horror behind him.

  Finally, the Commander of the Order stopped his beating. He was breathing ragged and trembling fiercely. The man hadn’t made a peep, but his eyes were aflame, and his teeth revealed a terribly wicked sneer.

  Tears streamed down both of their faces, and blood flecked his father’s. Finally, the commander fixed his grimace and became the emotionless golem that he always was. But he couldn’t hide his trembling fists and his loud heart and his heavy breathing.

  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then strode out of the tent without another word.

  Dorrick wanted to throw a sting of obscenities at him, to rage and rage until someone had to come in and gag him, but he didn’t do that. He quietly trembled, as tears cut his cheeks and blood trailed his chin from his split lip and missing tooth. Shandi was still behind him, though he could hear her soft breaths, so she was alive at least.

  Damn you, he thought at his father. Damn you!

  His father had finally cracked, finally broken, finally shown some weakness, but it had not been the way Dorrick had wanted.

  The shattered shards of Vanter Vane were sharp, and they cut anyone that came in contact with them. And it was the younger Vane’s fault.

  13

  Dorrick

  The rest of the day went by in a haze of tears, blood, and pain. No one came to feed them or give them water as always, and no one came to clean up Shandi. If she was critically wounded, would they let her die? It seemed they were okay with that.

  This wasn’t the order he knew, that would let prisoners get beaten, starved, and left for dead, no matter what they did.

  He didn’t know how bad Shandi’s injuries were. No matter how much he craned his neck and twisted in his restraints, Dorrick could only half-glance at his companion, though he
was able to make out a side profile bathed red with her blood. A couple of drops rhythmically dropped from her nose and lips every few seconds, and that was the sound he heard all through the night.

  He didn’t get a second of sleep. Not with the memories of the beating, the crash of each and every punch like a clap of thunder in his head. And each drop of blood that hit the floor was a bang that made his chest twist with pain and guilt. I’m sorry, Shandi, he thought with a sob. I’m so, so sorry.

  The sage’s assistant was alive, nasally breathing making that clear. Maybe a broken nose. Seemed likely. Who knew how many more facial bones his father had broken? How much pain she must have been in before she was inevitably knocked out. He prayed to whatever god would listen that she wasn’t caused permanent head trauma.

  Morning came, and he was physically miserable to go along with emotionally. His stomach was a constant rumble at that point, demanding to be fed. The anger pangs that wracked his body made him gasp and groan, and he tried to curl into a ball and make it go away, but…rope. He couldn’t do it.

  His throat was so dry that he thought if he tried to talk, a cloud of dust would come out. His busted lips were chapped, though the blood had kept them moist enough, but they still hurt.

  Only bright spot: he didn’t need to relieve himself since he soiled himself in the night. That was hardly a relief, though.

  So between the smell, the hurt, and the worry, there was no way he would ever rest. His body was a tired mess that had no way of fixing itself.

  He wondered how long they would keep them like that, but he ended up not having to wait too long to figure that out.

  Shortly after dawn, they came—three knights. They threw the flap aside and made for him without word or even looks of hate. He was too dazed to see their faces, but that was probably for the best. He didn’t want to see faces that he knew, that he’d laughed and fought with, look at him with pure hatred and revulsion.

  One came to his side and cut the rope tying him and Shandi in place. When it went slack, he gasped and pitched forward, a wave of relief washing through him as the rope stopped digging into his skin. He stretched his legs in relief, not caring at all about the filth down them.

  He almost tried to stand, but before he could, his head was shoved in the dirt and his hand forced behind his back where they were clapped with irons. Same with his feet. Before he could offer any retort, he was yanked up onto his feet. The sudden motion made him swoon and he vomited up what little bits of food he had in his stomach—so it was mostly bile, and it burned his already-parched throat.

  They woke Shandi roughly, not caring for her injuries, and did the same to her as they did him, shoving her to the ground without even a hint of gentleness. Once she was secured in irons, they yanked her to her feet, and her breath caught terribly, a sound that made her sound so vulnerable and not at all like the indestructible woman he knew so fondly.

  He was finally able to get a good look at her at least, though he wasn’t pleased with what he saw. Her dark skin was stained with dried blood. Her nose was at a terrible angle, as he’d suspected. Her eyes opened, droopy and unfocused, though he was glad to see that they were intact. He’d seen a bar brawl where drunk man’s eye had been punched from its socket, and that was tame compared to how ferociously Vanter had beaten her.

  Shandi was a tough woman, one of the toughest in the world. If anyone could take beating from Vanter Vane and live, it was her.

  Her head lifted ever-so-slightly, her eyes focusing, and she saw him. She twitched her lips in a smile, and then her head drooped again, and she was out just like that.

  The knight standing over her growled and splashed a bucket of water onto her head. “Wake up, savage!”

  It wasn’t a voice Dorrick felt familiar with, but he kept his eyes down. He didn’t want any recognition. Better for them to be his anonymous executioners. He knew they weren’t, but gods willing, one of them hadn’t been a friend.

  The water seemed to do it. Shandi gasped and flailed, her eyes wide and panicked for a moment before she calmed. A lot of the red washed from her face and hair, but a good layer remained stuck to her skin. The crusty bits of her hair would need a thorough washing.

  But Dorrick was sure neither of them was about to get a bath.

  “I’m so sorry, Shandi,” he said, his voice almost cracking. The knight at his back told him to be quiet and cracked him over the head, making him stumble.

  Shandi winced and gasped as she was yanked to her feet. Thankfully, he caught a glimpse of her teeth and it didn’t appear like there was any damage. Not that it mattered in the long run, but that was less pain for her.

  Once she was on her feet again, her hands and feet bound in irons like his, she cast him a glance. “It’s okay,” she whispered. Her voice didn’t have any of the usual bite or stoicism that he was used to. No, she sounded like a tired woman who knew things were about to come to an end and who would be able to rest for a long time.

  She knew. He knew too. They were about to be executed. Their fears were confirmed as they were dragged out of the tent.

  It was morning, an hour or so after dawn. The sky was beautiful and cloudless, and birds chirped in the distance where they hadn’t destroyed the forest. The sky was a light blue and pink. Stunning, a picture worthy of painting.

  Then there were the gallows sitting in the middle of the fields.

  It was hastily built, didn’t look totally sturdy, but he had no doubt that it would do the job. Dorrick’s heart dropped into his stomach. This was it. He was too be hanged by the people he once loved, in front of a crowd of his former brothers and sisters who now hated his guts and wanted to see him dead.

  He’d done the right thing. He’d fought for those that loved the wilds against an invader that took more and more every day. He’d done what was right, and he didn’t regret that. He wouldn’t change a thing.

  Dorrick just wished he didn’t have to die.

  Never to see Tuni or Gayla again, or Ash’yali. And what would become of the tree folk? No doubt his father would return to the village with vengeance and cut a fiery trail through the wilds. Vanter Vane wasn’t a man of mercy, and the tree folk would receive none from him. He’d burn a path all the way from Al-Sevara to Masrataa.

  At least I’ll get to see Marcella again, he thought, trying to find some solace. But would she accept him, even in the afterlife? If she could look at him now and see what he fought for, that he’d killed his own, would she still love him?

  That wasn’t a question he could answer, but it was one that he’d know soon.

  Since his attack on the worker camp with the tree folk, new tents had been erected, and new more permanent structures were in the middle stages of being built. Their wooden skeletons stood vigil in the morning light. The machinery was harder to replace, but Dorrick worried that they hadn’t delayed much.

  What had all this been for?

  As he and Shandi were pushed forward, he saw that nearly a hundred knights and workers had gathered in front of the gallows. All come to watch him swing. They probably didn’t even care about Shandi. She was just guilty by association. No, he was the true villain that they wanted to see.

  Who knew how many familiar faces were there? Were Ollo and Evan out there, waiting to see their best friend hang? Or was Evan somewhere else with his brother trying his best to comfort him? Evan was a soft soul, and he wouldn’t want to see this. Dorrick had faith in that.

  Not that it mattered in the end. Even if Evan and Ollo had a sudden change of heart, which wasn’t likely, they wouldn’t be able to sway all these darkened hearts. And they certainly had no hope of changing the mind of a hard man like Vanter Vane. The commander suffered no fools, no traitors. There was no changing him. Dorrick knew that. He just wished he’d known that years ago. It may have saved him a lifetime of heartbreak trying to win the love of a man who was incapable of giving it.

  His boot hit the first wooden step of the gallows, and it hit him—that panic in
his stomach, that ache in his heart.

  I’m going to die.

  He’d faced life-or-death situations plenty of times, fights against spirits, undead, trained knights, fights that all could have led to his death. Yet in none of those did he truly believe he would die. He always believed that his skill and training would pull him through.

  But that wouldn’t help him here. He was at the end of his rope, literally.

  He began to tremble with fear. Don’t let it show, he urged himself. Don’t give them the satisfaction. But it was so hard to curb that feeling and quell the dread of his imminent doom. Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks, and if they did, Dorrick knew that he was done.

  Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

  His feet landed on the top of the gallows, solid beneath him. Shandi was behind him, groaning with pain. Of course he couldn’t see if she was crying, but he knew she wouldn’t be. No matter her pain, no matter her death, she wouldn’t let a single tear slip down those chiseled, brown cheeks of hers. Nothing would break her.

  Dorrick steeled himself. He could do this. He could go and meet death head-on, like greeting an old friend. He was scared beyond belief, and he didn’t know what the afterlife may bring, but he would go forward with his chin up, eyes forward, and a defiant smirk.

  He finally came to a stop in the middle of the platform. The trapdoor beneath him wobbled under his weight but held firm and would do so until they pulled the lever. The headsman wore a dark hood that covered his face completely as well as a suit of armor and knightly cape, only his was black, something Dorrick couldn’t ever recall seeing.

  A hundred sets of eyes stared back at him with a wide range of emotions, though most of it was hate and rage. Dorrick hadn’t expected anything less.

  His father came and stood before the gallows at the head of the crowd, his back to the noose. Arms folded behind him, he looked as broad and statuesque as he always had, and Dorrick wished that he could topple that statue from its pedestal.

  What muttering there was fell silent as the commander halted. Dorrick held his breath, as did the crowd. Finally, Vanter broke the heavy silence of this beautiful morning.