Skillful Death

by Ike Hamill

  “Amazing,” I say. I imagine Peter, leading his group. He’s now convinced that he’s still heading north, thwarting the will of his attackers. In his mind, he assaulted their forces until he punched through the line. Now, he thinks he’s escaping to the north.

  The red dots veer east.

  The blue dots push west and south.

  Between them, the green forces hold back and form a line to the north of the red and blue. The green almost form an inverted horseshoe, with red and blue in the center.

  The groups slow a bit when they spot each other through the woods. Perhaps they’re confused to discover that there are three groups on the battlefield. Red and blue soon accelerate, trying to reach a defensible position, and are confused as to why the landscape doesn’t match their maps.

  “Ready, Zeta,” Vasil says.

  Around us, I hear horses stamp and champ—goosed to attention by their riders.

  “It was only hours ago that I told you where this battle would take place. How could you possibly have all this planned?” I ask.

  “Your memory astounds me,” he says. “We had three sites prepared. At the meeting, you only informed us which of the three. Spreading the devices around three entire battlefields was impossible. So we’re driving them all into this small area. Honestly, I wagered a few more resources on this one. Sorry, I know it was supposed to be even, but it seemed so… logical.”

  On the display, the semi-circle of green forces pushes the red and blue dots south. They’re about to join the semi-circle of green dots that represent the cavalry. Around us, the men and women on horses prepare to charge into the battle. They await Vasil’s signal.

  “Would you like to call the charge?” he asks me.

  I decline with a wave.

  He keys the microphone and takes a breath. “Omega.”

  The horses burst from the trees and sprint through the forest.

  On the display, only green dots are moving. Red and blue halt and entrench as green dots collapse on their position. Steady, loud gunfire erupts from the forest nearby. We’re not close enough to see more than the occasional muzzle flash, or some smoke, or a riderless horse run by.

  Green dots disappear. Rarely, a blue or red dot will blink off.

  Bud’s dot is stopped, but he’s not at the same location as the others. He’s surrounded by his own small contingent of green. And they form a tight circle around him. After a few seconds, the green circle with Bud’s blue dot in the center begins to move towards my location.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  A low hum begins. It rattles my skull and makes my teeth itch.

  The display shuts off.

  “Whu-whu-whu-what is thuh-that?” I ask.

  Vasil holds up his hand and waits for the hum to stop.

  When the humming stops, he lets out a big sigh.

  “That’s containment,” he says. “It should be fully engaged now.”

  He clips his radio to his belt and tents his hands around his mouth to shout. “Are we good?”

  A soldier, dressed in forest camouflage, trots up through the woods and speaks to Vasil. They finish their conversation as I approach, so I can’t hear anything.

  A group of five soldiers drags Bud up to our position. His wrists are bound behind his back and attached to his ankles. He doesn’t look up when they drop him on the ground. If they just looped a rope around his neck, he would be in the same position as when he saw his daughter assaulted.

  I move to Bud and hunt for a blade to cut the ropes. A couple of soldiers pull me back and hold my arms tight.

  “Sir?” One of the soldiers calls to Vasil. “What about this one?” he asks, waving towards me.

  “Secure him with Constantine. The people haven’t judged him yet.”

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  As much as I disliked my earlier horseback riding lesson, this one is a million times worse. With my hands tied behind my back and my ankles bound, they strap me across the back of an enormous horse. Each time the animal bounces, it feels like my ribs will crack. My abdomen aches as I try to absorb the impacts.

  On the horse next to me, Bud looks limp. His feet just dangle, flopping around with the motion of his horse. Life is better when we get to the road. We’re pulled from the horses and tossed in the back of a cart. We see the world retreating as we face backwards and roll towards town.

  The cart slows and then I see the pieces of the gates being dismantled by many hands. They must be removing the blockades maintained by the logical Providentials. I hear gunfire in the woods a few times. I nudge Bud but he’s resting his chin on his chest. When I try to speak to Bud, the guard tells me to be quiet and hits me in the stomach with the butt of his gun.

  We come to a stop in front of a huge white building in the center of a cluster of buildings. I imagine that this is what passes for town. Trees line the streets and drape their full branches over the buildings. The place looks like maintenance was a low priority. The paint is peeling, shutters hang askew, and weeds are waist-high anywhere that foot travel hasn’t beaten them down.

  “Get up,” our guard says.

  “It’s a little difficult with my ankles tied,” I say.

  “Get up.”

  I manage to get my feet under me and come to an unstable, hopping stance in the bed of the cart. Bud stays where he is. I’m not sure he’s actually conscious.

  “Get down.”

  “How?” I ask. It’s got to be at least four feet down to the ground.

  The guard doesn’t answer. He grabs the knot between my ankles. I think he’s going to untie me so I can jump, and he pulls instead. I lose my balance and slam down on my side. The guard pulls, sliding me until I flop down over the edge and hit the ground.

  “Get up,” he says.

  I don’t bother to argue, but it takes me a minute to find my feet again.

  He just drags Bud. He’s like a sack of potatoes.

  I hop up the steps of the white building and wait at the door while the guard pulls Bud thumping up the steps. He opens the door and I hop inside. Most of the first floor is one big room with enormous ceilings and huge columns and arches holding up the rest.

  The guard drags Bud across the plank floor. I hop a couple of times. I realize that the rope connecting my ankles is loose enough to permit a very short shuffle. That’s easier than hopping. Crossed swords and guns hang on the walls, making little X’s between the windows. Above, a banner hangs between two trusses. The faded embroidery shows a lion, an elephant, and a snake. The lion rears to strike at the elephant’s head and the snake is coiled around the elephant’s leg. On his long face, the elephant wears a frown. Across the top of the banner, three Latin words appear. “Mors Sapientia Est.” I used to know Latin fairly well, and if I remember correctly, sapientia has several meanings depending on the context. It can mean memory or wisdom, and it can also mean science. I think there’s even a flavor of sapientia used to describe a honed skill that comes from a great deal of practice. Depending on which version of sapientia we’re talking about, I would translate the banner to read “Death is Wisdom,” or “Death is Skill.” I wonder what the hell that means.

  Near the back of the big hall, the room narrows to a passage. Rear doors are open and steps lead down to a pretty garden of flowers and bushes. We don’t go that far. The guard drags Bud through a door to the right. I keep shuffling. I want to see the steps where Skomin stood and the garden where Bud fought the elephant. I don’t get much time for sightseeing. The guard comes up behind me and drags me backwards by my ropes. I stay upright and shuffle to the room.

  He pushes me towards a bench and I lower myself to the seat. Bud is on his side on the floor.

  “You can’t leave us,” I say. “He needs medical attention. He…”

  I don’t finish the sentence. The guard slams the door shut.

  I nudge Bud with my foot and try to wake him. He has been tied before and managed to escape his bonds. I pick at the ropes but my fingers are worthless. Bud’s
chest is rising and falling. He doesn’t respond at all. My next nudge is too firm. It’s more like a kick. I get no reaction from Bud.

  I try to get comfortable on the bench.

  Outside the room, in the hall, I hear voices and banging. When the voices fade, I shuffle over to the door and bring my bound hands up to the knob. It turns, but the door won’t open. More voices come and I yell for them to let me out. I yell that Bud needs help. Nothing I say brings anyone to the door.

  We’ve got a couple of windows high up on the wall. They let in light but they’re too high for me to see anything except trees. Eventually, I’m so bored that I find my way to my knees and I press my face against the floor. I look through the crack below the door. All I see are feet, walking back and forth. Once again, I yell for help. Everyone ignores me.

  I worm my way over to the wall next to the bench and thrust my legs. I hear a crack when my feet hit the wall, so I pull them back and kick again. After a few more kicks, I stop to inspect my work. I’ve managed to crack a circle of plaster and some of it has fallen away from the lath. It hangs by fiber or hairs. I kick away the loose plaster and kick at the section of wall again. One of the lath boards feels like it’s starting to break.

  The door opens and a short man slides in and closes it behind himself. He has a syringe in his hand and another clamped between his teeth. He goes to Bud first. He checks Bud’s pulse, and then pulls a rubber hose from his pocket. He ties the hose around Bud’s arm near his armpit.

  “Hey, get away from him,” I say.

  I spin myself on the floor and kick at the man’s legs.

  With one hand, the man pulls the hose from Bud’s arm and stands. I kick at his ankle again.

  He raises a foot and stomps on my shoulder. I flop down on my back, crunching my hands underneath myself. He lands on my chest with his knees. I can barely breathe. I thrash my legs, but I can’t shake him off of me. The rubber hose is now tied around my arm and I can feel my pulse as my heart fights the tourniquet. Despite my thrashing, he gets the syringe in my vein. A mellow heat spreads into my arm and when he releases the rubber hose, it washes through my body with my pulse. It feels so good. I drift into a beautiful sleep.

  64 CEREMONY

  WHEN I WAKE UP, my eyes won’t focus. Have you ever flexed a muscle so long that it’s beyond cramped? Like flexed is the only position that muscle will ever know again? Whatever the muscle that stops me from urinating currently feels like that. I blink over and over, trying to clear my eyes, and I breathe short, shallow breaths, trying not to wet my pants.

  The room is very dim. The only light comes from the crack under the door and candles flickering on the high windowsills.

  “Help!” I yell. “Help me. Please? I have to go!”

  I’m trying to think—am I speaking English, or that funny language that’s nearly Russian, but not quite? It’s hard to tell. The funny language feels just as natural on my tongue and I seem to slip into it.

  “Vasil?” I call.

  A man slips through the door. It’s the syringe man.

  “No, no, don’t drug me again. I have to pee. Please,” I say.

  “Shush!” he says.

  He straddles me, grabs me under my armpits and hoists me up to my knees. The pressure shifts off of my bladder and I have a moment of relief. He pulls a bucket from under the bench and helps me go. It’s humiliating, but the release is pure pleasure. My eyes come into focus and I see Bud still stretched out on the floor.

  “Is he breathing?” I ask.

  The guy keeps his voice low. “Would you be quiet? We’re right in the middle of everything.”

  I hope the guy takes the bucket with him. It smells like fear in here now.

  “How much longer are we going to be held in here?” I ask.

  “Not much longer,” he says.

  He leaves with the bucket and I sit back on my heels.

  Bud is breathing. His mouth is open now and it looks like he’s either drooled or spit up something. I would love to talk to him and get his opinion on what’s going on out there. I hear voices every so often with long silences between. I consider resuming my efforts to kick a hole in the wall, but I don’t think it will get me very far. That guy would probably just come in and drug me again. My mouth is incredibly dry. I would kill for a sip of water.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  My feet have fallen asleep. I sat on my knees for too long, and now I can’t seem to get up. I settle for rolling onto my side so I can stretch my legs and return feeling to my feet. I still have pins and needles in my legs when the men come in. There are five of them.

  Before I can ask what’s going on, they’ve jerked me to my feet and cut the ropes from my ankles and wrists. Two of them hold me under each armpit. If they didn’t, I would probably fall down. My legs are an agony of tingling. The guy with the syringes injects Bud with something and then waves ammonia under his nose. Bud moans and stirs and they lift him as well. He has his own two attendants holding him up while they cut his ropes. We’re walked out to the main hall.

  I barely recognize the place.

  Black streamers are draped between the beams and cascade down the walls to pool on the floor. Candles adorn every flat surface. Lines of people stand shoulder to shoulder along the walls. They’re wearing red robes with white sashes. The floor is covered with roses. Their scent hangs in the air. It’s so thick that I imagine I can feel it swirling around us as we’re led to the center of the room.

  As my eyes adjust to the flickering candles, I see the dark shapes hanging from the beams. They look like flies cocooned and hung from a spiderweb. I look to Bud. His mouth hangs open and his eyes look glazed as he stares up to the ceiling.

  When one of the cocooned shapes thrashes, I recognize them for what they are. The Providentials have been hung from the trusses by their feet. They’re wrapped in black cloth, like dark mummies, with only their heads showing. They’re gagged. I’m confused because I only see seven. There should be ten Providentials. I remember that some were killed in the battle.

  We’re led to the center of the room and stopped. A few feet away, a white-haired man stands on a platform. He raises his arms and his red cloak spreads like wings.

  “Constantine and Cornelius,” he says. I look around. Cornelius? Is that supposed to be me? “Would you be judged with the other Providentials?”

  I glance up at the seven shapes hanging by their feet. I certainly don’t want whatever fate they’ve earned, and I don’t understand why I would be grouped with those men and women. I glance at Bud. He doesn’t seem up to arguing for us. It seems like an easy question, so I decide to venture an answer.

  “No,” I say.

  “State your reasons,” he says.

  “Well, Constantine was exiled by the Constable, long ago. He was never informed of his duties, but still came back to serve his community. He deserves nothing but praise. I merely work for him. I’ve served him to the best of my ability and therefore I don’t believe that I’ve done anything wrong either. I would ask you to tell us what you perceive as our crimes.”

  “You, Cornelius, are charged with murder, collusion, conspiracy, larceny, treason, and promoting delinquency. You, Constantine, are charged with aiding and abetting Cornelius,” he says.

  “I’ve committed no such crimes,” I say. “And my name is not Cornelius. You have me confused with another man. I’m Malcolm, and I merely work for Bud…um, Constantine. You are confusing me for someone else.”

  I start to move forward as I protest. It’s just natural. I’m not trying to attack the old man or anything. My two guards come after me and pull me back by my arms until I’m standing next to Bud again.

  “Bud, say something. Tell them who I am,” I say.

  He’s still dazed, just staring off into space.

  “Is that your only defense?” he asks.

  “It’s the only one I need. What evidence do you have against me? I don’t even know you people,” I say.

  The man l
owers his arms and his robes once more pool around his feet.

  Bud and I are dragged backwards by the guards until we’re near the back of the hall. The room is whisper-silent as the old man steps down from his platform and walks to the center of the room. He kneels with difficulty, eventually descending to one knee. He puts his hands on the floor and the seven Providentials begin to lower from the ceiling. The ropes rub on the beams as the bodies descend.

  When they feel themselves moving, several of the Providentials thrash and swing on their ropes. They stop when their heads are just a few inches from the floor. From the line of people making a perimeter around the room, seven people step forward. Their robed arms are crossed in front of them, with sleeves overlapping so you can’t see their hands.

  Each person steps in front of a Providential and stops.

  The old man in the center of the room speaks. “We dismiss the era of Providentials and the dark magic that has sustained us for a thousand years. We dismiss the league of wizards who once brought us prosperity but now bring us only oppression. We dismiss you and judge you unfit to walk amongst us. We dismiss you and ask you to never return. We dismiss your mortal shell.”

  When he finishes his speech, the seven robed figures pull their hands apart. Each holds a shining dagger. Each stoops and thrusts their dagger forward into the chest of a Providential. Their thrashing sounds like flags fluttering in the wind. No sound passes their gagged lips. I can’t see the blood soaking through their black cocoons, but I hear it splattering, and see it pooling on the planks beneath them.

  I look at Bud. He blinks several times and closes his mouth. He works his tongue over his dry lips and drops to his knees. The guards pull him back to his feet.

  One of the Providentials with long hair, one of the women, is the last to stop moving.