by CS Sealey
As they argued, Terran heaved his last breath and then fell still. Zoran shifted on the rooftop, listening as the shouting died away to silent confusion. The remaining members of the patrol unit stood around their fallen comrade for some time before they decided to move him.
As a precaution, Zoran followed them to the barracks. They took a more direct route than they had done on their patrol, cutting through alleyways and pushing citizens aside. When they arrived at the barracks, Zoran perched on the rooftop opposite and strained his ears to hear the explanation the unit gave the guards at the gate and then their superiors moments later.
“A stack of barrels?” an officer asked in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. He said he thought he saw something and pushed at the barrels. Then they came down on top of him.”
“What’s this slash here across the back of his neck?” the officer asked.
“Must’ve happened when he fell, Captain Hedridge,” Endrey said. “There were lots of crates along the alleyway.”
Zoran stirred on the rooftop and felt a smile creep onto his thin lips. Hedridge was one of the names on Captain Auran’s list.
*
Almost two hours later, his cloak spotted with water and Captain Hedridge’s blood, Zoran returned to the sanctuary through his bedroom window and went straight down to the mess, where he poured himself a mug of water and sat heavily on a bench against the wall. Dawn was approaching and, as he sat there, drinking silently, he heard the other residents of the sanctuary stirring and leaving their beds. A few of the girls appeared first and went out to bring in fresh bread, then a few of the resistance men surfaced.
“You were out all night,” Tiderius said, sitting down next to him. “So was Rasmus. Still out there somewhere.”
Zoran glanced at the younger Auran brother and, noting his poorly masked anxiety, lowered his mug and sat up straighter. “He doesn’t usually stay out?”
“Never. I mean, he used to but that was years ago when he used to pick up women. Hasn’t stayed out all night for years.”
“Perhaps he was working,” Zoran said, shrugging.
“Maybe, but I have this strange feeling….”
Tiderius remained in a dark mood for the rest of that morning, unable to sustain any sort of conversation with anyone, even Angora.
Zoran took to his bed when midday approached and did not rise for many hours, though there was a great deal of noise as reinforcements were smuggled in and out, supplies arrived, and people passed on the latest news. He slept deeply and woke at dusk fairly refreshed and ready for another night of rooftop wandering. He rose from the pallet and scrutinized Rasmus’s list, which lay on the small table in the corner of the room. The assassin felt a certain sense of satisfaction as he crossed Captain Hedridge off and noted the manner of his death – tragically drowning in the city’s docklands after a tavern brawl.
As he skimmed down the list of names yet to be crossed off, he heard a sudden escalation of movement and voices from the floors below, all raised in what sounded like fear and anger. Zoran crossed the room. When he reached the door, it was yanked open by a very flustered and anxious Tiderius.
“The bastards!” he cried, slamming his palm into the doorframe. “The bastards will pay for this!”
“What’s going on?” Zoran asked, spotting Cassios Avric close behind.
“We’ve just received word that Rasmus has been captured,” Cassios explained. “They’ve already announced his execution.”
“When did this happen?”
“He was arrested early last night apparently,” Cassios said. “The source wasn’t clear. He only overheard a report given to an officer in the Ayons’ main barracks. But one thing’s for certain, he’s been taken and the evidence against him is tight. Caught him red-handed spreading our words.”
“We have to get him back!”
“Calm, Tiderius. Calm,” said a quiet voice at his back.
The Ronnesian turned and saw Angora standing in the doorway, one hand resting absently on her unborn child. At the sight of her, Tiderius tried to restrain himself but Zoran saw the struggle reflected in his eyes.
“Do we know where he has been taken?” Angora asked Cassios.
“Yes. Unfortunately, it just happens to be the most fortified place in the entire city! They obviously know who he is.”
“The castle…” Angora muttered. “I know of four ways in.”
“Four?” Tiderius asked, frowning. “I know of three.”
“The front gates, for one.”
“Well, they’re not going to just let us in if we ask nicely, are they?” Tiderius said impatiently.
“There is also the narrow path above the monastery that goes through the hidden door to the kitchen gardens. The only problem with that entrance is there are few places to hide once inside. The corridors from there to the main stairwell are particularly bare, with no alcoves and few rooms. You would need a disguise.”
“That is a possibility, though,” Cassios said, nodding to himself. “We could sneak in tonight.”
“Yes!”
“There is also the passage that leads from the Gardens District to the dungeons. However, during the siege, Tarvenna may have discovered that route, so I believe it will be heavily guarded, if not blocked up. But it is the most direct way into the dungeon. That way, you may avoid detection from Varren and his men but only if the passage remains a secret.”
“And the fourth way?” Cassios asked.
“Over the wall.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Tiderius said flatly. “There is no way you’re doing anything in your condition!”
Angora flared instantly. “I have every right to help save him! He is my oldest friend!”
“You may have little regard for your own safety,” Tiderius said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible, “but must I remind you that being reckless now puts two lives at risk?”
Angora looked ready to fiercely retort but Zoran raised his hands above his head and shouted for silence.
“You are all wrong in your deductions,” he said, folding his arms. “If the Ayons know how important Rasmus is to the rebellion, they will be patrolling the corridors in droves. You will be unsuccessful if you try to break him out of the dungeons, most probably end up in a cell yourself, if not dead, and that doesn’t help anyone.”
“Then what do you propose we do?” Tiderius asked angrily.
“You said he is to be executed. When?”
“By all accounts, some time in the week,” Cassios said. “They won’t give him any sort of proper trial. They have already decided he’s too dangerous to be kept alive for long. They’ll question him if they haven’t already, then kill him.”
The assassin nodded to himself and turned away from the company, his mind hard at work. The light had almost completely drained from the sky and the shadows in the room were intensifying. He was aware that the others were shifting slightly in agitation, waiting for him to speak.
“They will do it publicly,” he muttered more to himself. “An example will be made and the citizens will be forced to watch…”
“Varren will most certainly do it himself,” Cassios added. “The gallows in the middle city square, the largest open space in the city.”
“And the best place to hide is in plain sight,” Zoran said, spinning back around and facing the anxious companions. “We will wait until they bring him down from the castle.”
“But think of what they could do to him before then!” Tiderius exclaimed. “Varren will torture him, and I’m not talking about your usual hot irons or racks here, Zoran. Rasmus could lose his mind!”
“I’m aware of the capabilities of magical torture, having been on the receiving end of it myself on many occasions,” Zoran said. “But our best opportunity will be on the day of the execution. If your brother is as strong of mind as he is on the battlefield, then he will be able to endure whatever Varren throws at him, not to mention that he shares your blood, Auran. He will fare be
tter than a normal man. But the fact remains, we will have to move the sanctuary. Without uttering a single word, your brother will give away our position.”
“He’d rather die. He knows what’s at stake,” Cassios said.
“Regardless, if Varren can read minds as well as Latrett, he will soon know where we are.”
“I will tell Lila to begin the move,” Angora said. “She may know of a suitable place.”
“Be sure to tell all members of the resistance staying here to not leave the building without some form of disguise. Varren can most certainly delve into Rasmus’s memories as well as thoughts.”
Angora nodded and turned to leave.
“Now, about Rasmus. He’ll be closely guarded when they bring him to the square but, once he’s on the platform, they’ll move away…”
“And what if we fail to rescue him? He’ll die!” Tiderius cried.
“If we fail, we may all die with him,” the elf said, shrugging. “How is that any different to storming the castle?”
“You have a plan, I trust?” Angora asked at the door.
“One that will cause enough havoc to make the invasion look like a tavern brawl. Come, we have much work to do. Auran, Avric – what do you know about the mechanics of the gallows?”
CHAPTER 68
He could not believe what was happening to him. It was like a bad dream, but one from which he could not wake. Manacled, his ripped and bloodied shirt hanging from his torn back, he barely resembled the proud captain he had once been. Bruised and battered, starved, his head roughly shaved, Rasmus clenched his jaw and reminded himself, yet again, why he had fought the Ayon invaders.
“Scum! Filthy Ronnesian dog!” He heard the jeers of the Ayon soldiers as he was led through the castle; it was as though every one of them had been relieved of their duties to watch his solemn procession to the gallows. He must have slowed, for the guard walking behind him shoved the pommel of his sword into Rasmus’s back. He stumbled. The Ayons laughed. He regained his balance and walked on.
As he descended the hill into the city, he heard something ahead that made him raise his eyes from the ground. It was shouting, but their voices were not cursing his name, but another’s. Their words felt like cool water, soothing the aching wounds that covered his body.
“Curse you and your men, Varren! To hell with you all! May you all burn! Go back to the pits you crawled from! Ayon bastards!”
He searched frantically for the protestors but the path was so thickly lined with soldiers that the gathered citizens could hardly be seen behind them.
When he passed under the uppermost gate, there was a great roar of voices, of cheers and curses anew.
“Auran! Auran! Auran!”
“Be brave, comrade! We’re with you, captain!”
“Down with the Ayons!”
However, just as Rasmus’s spirits were rising from hearing so many people still loyal to the resistance, a great crack echoed around the square followed instantly by a flash of red light and a hot gust of air. Rasmus was blinded and stumbled once more on the cobblestones. The guard behind him grasped his arm so tightly that Rasmus assumed that he, too, could not see. He heard screams of fear and pain and smelled the scent of burning flesh. His stomach lurched.
When his sight returned, he saw half a dozen citizens lying on the ground, twitching in pain, their features contorting. The people around them were murmuring to each other in frightened tones but none were brave enough to approach those who had been struck down. Archis Varren stood on the scaffold, hands grasping the wooden rail and his eyes flaming white. With one look from those eyes, the crowd quietened.
“You are in pain because of your insolence!” he cried. “I promised to protect this city from any who wished to disturb this fragile peace, and this man – ” he turned to face Rasmus and glared at him, “ – this man wishes to put you in danger! He wants you to suffer! He encourages you to rally against my soldiers and risk your lives. You disturb this peace and so I have acted against you!” He motioned to the injured men and women. “You brought this upon yourselves. But since I am merciful, I will end your suffering.”
He raised his arms again and every pair of eyes followed. Another ball of flame flickered between his open palms and began to grow. Rasmus knew what was going to happen but he could not draw his eyes away.
The ball of fire split into six tendrils that shot directly at each of the wounded Ronnesians. There were gasps and cries from the gathered citizens and many turned away, shielding their faces. But there was no reverberating crack nor smell of burning flesh this time. Instead, the injured few were hit squarely in the chests and fell silent and still. With a gesture from Varren, a dozen or so soldiers dragged the bodies away.
“Don’t blame me, dear people. Blame him!” the sorcerer cried, pointing a finger fiercely in Rasmus’s direction. “This man has worked against your consul! I do not want to see the streets run red with blood nor smoke rise from your burning homes. But he does! He does not want peace! He is a soldier, he thirsts for battle and men like him are dangerous. We cannot allow these vulgar rebels, these deceivers, to continue to wreak havoc. How many more must die before people like him, like Captain Rasmus Auran, are stopped? Hopefully, only one more.”
One more indeed, Rasmus thought, glaring defiantly now. Just you.
Varren’s eyes scoured the crowd for a moment longer, relishing the stunned silence, before returning his gaze to Rasmus and the guards. “Bring the traitor forward.”
Rasmus felt the pommel of the sword jab hard into his back and moved again, the chains of his manacles clinking with each step. His legs felt weaker than ever before. He raised his eyes to the gallows and then lowered them again. His heart still hoped that he would see his friends one more time before he died. He needed to know that they were safe. He scanned the crowd but could see no faces he recognized. Had he unconsciously betrayed them? Had Varren managed to find and dispose of them, too? With a lump in his throat, he ascended the platform and faced the citizens of Te’Roek. No matter what influence Varren had over them, none were shouting and jeering at Rasmus.
Several Ayon soldiers were muttering to each other but even they had quietened. He saw tears in the eyes of civilians and realized then just how much work had been done by the resistance. Those people knew him and were mourning him. Perhaps there was hope that, somehow, the Ayons could be defeated without him. He had done his part.
Varren, standing now at the front of the scaffold, looked at him with an expression of gleeful anticipation, but even that could not dampen Rasmus’s spirits. The people were on his side.
“As is custom, you are entitled to say a few last words,” Varren said, “but should you use this opportunity to spread your poisonous beliefs, your death will be drawn out, and they will watch you break.”
Rasmus nodded and the guards flanking him moved away. He took a few unsteady steps and rested his manacled wrists on the rail. The citizens of Te’Roek looked up at him, attentive but sorrowful.
“These past days, I have been called a thief, a liar, a murderer and a traitor, but I consider myself none of these things. I am guilty of nothing but loving my country and her people and doing everything in my power to serve them. I go to my death with a clean conscience.”
He stepped back and the silence that followed was chilling.
The gallows stood high above the platform, two upright wooden posts with a single crossbeam, from which hung a thick rope fashioned into a noose. The executioner, his head masked in a black cowl, stepped forward and bowed his head. “Do you forgive me?” he asked.
Rasmus heard the thick northern accent upon his tongue and sighed. “Whether I forgive you or not is irrelevant.”
The large man straightened with an angered grunt, loosened the loop and slipped it around Rasmus’s neck. The rope jerked slightly and he moved his head uncomfortably as the noose was tightened. It was only then that Rasmus began to feel afraid. He had never doubted that his skills would keep him
alive in the heat of battle, and only rarely had he felt the cold sweat of fear sweep across his skin. When he was fighting for his life, he had his sword and his many years of training to depend on, but now, there was no raging battle, there was no sword in his hand, no hope for survival. He was painfully aware of every breath in his lungs and every thud of his heart. Only seconds remained before his mind slipped into darkness and whatever lay beyond.
“As consul and high magistrate of Te’Roek, I pronounce Captain Rasmus Auran guilty of treason. Prisoner, your punishment is to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. It is a merciful sentence for treason. May the Spirits show you the same mercy in the Halls of the Passed. Executioner.”
The man approached and placed a thin cloth sack over Rasmus’s head. Through the grain of the material, Rasmus watched as Varren took several paces back and then nodded. Rasmus heard the executioner’s heavy boots cross the wooden planks of the scaffold and stop. He could not slow his breath. His heart pounded violently in his chest. He could feel the light, cool touch of the wind as it passed across his bruised skin and heard it whistle in his ears. His hands were cold, his lips were dry and his eyes stung with tears.
He closed his lids, trying to calm himself, but it was no use. He heard a sudden and sharp grunt from the executioner, a heavy thud, then a clank. The trapdoor gave way beneath him as the mechanism was released and he dropped.
*
Zoran Sable had been sitting there for a long time, longer than the Ayon soldiers had been standing guard around the wooden scaffold. He watched the gathering of the crowd as midday approached and spotted both Tiderius and Cassios as they took their positions. While Cassios made his way toward the front of the crowd, Tiderius hung back, as his face was known to Varren. Even from his place beside a large chimney on the roof of what had once been Mayor Challan’s house, Zoran could see the pain in the swordsman’s eyes and knew that Tiderius wished nothing more than to be as close to his brother as possible.
The assassin watched as Archis Varren ascended the wooden platform. If the chance presented itself, he might attempt to take the sorcerer’s life there and then, despite Emil Latrett’s warnings, for what did the shaman know of Zoran’s powers?