The Thin Executioner

clouds.

The villagers were a thin, scraggy, sullen-looking lot. Their stores had been raided by wolves the week before, and they’d lost much of their winter stock. They were afraid they wouldn’t survive until spring. They gruffly told the Um Biyara not to pitch their tents, to move on fast.

Qasr Bint merely smiled and extended his arms. “We come to lessen your woes, not to add to them,” he said. “Though we have little food, we ask for none of yours and will even share what we have with you— if you’ll listen to us.”

The villagers were impressed by Qasr Bint’s offer of food and hastily changed tack and invited him into their village to discuss matters metaphysical. When Qasr Bint returned, he was beaming. He told his followers to divide their food in three and send one-third to the starving villagers. A second third would be gifted to them later if they converted. The Um Biyara would have to live off what was left.

Nobody complained about the rationing. They were ecstatic to be on the verge of a successful conversion. For two days the Um Biyara mixed with the villagers, telling them of the wonders awaiting purged sinners when they died. The villagers weren’t keen on self-punishment — life was difficult enough — but Qasr Bint said they wouldn’t have to torment themselves as much as the missionaries did.

“We must be exceptionally pure,” he said, “but you do not need to be so hard on yourselves. The occasional whipping… thorns under your fingernails… an odd burn or two… That is all we ask of you.”

The villagers didn’t have much to look forward to. Practically all of them had been forced for varying reasons to leave their homes, to scrape a living in the lawless wilds. The promise of a better life when they died, in the company of the privileged rich, proved attractive. The clincher came when Qasr Bint told them of all the others who would be converting to the cause.

“There will soon be a network of Um Biyara homesteads in this region,” he vowed. “They will share with one another, send food and help where it’s required. You won’t be alone. You’ll have companions and friends to rely upon.”

In the belief that their lives were to improve markedly, the villagers converted. There was a shaving ceremony, where all were scraped bare, and much singing and feasting — the villagers were free with their food now, since they assumed there would be more pouring into their storehouses shortly.

Tel Hesani could see what would actually come to pass. The villagers had been won over with promises that couldn’t be kept. No new friends would come. In a few weeks they’d run out of food. Starving and weak from flogging themselves, it wasn’t likely that they’d make it through the winter blizzards. He felt sorry for the gullible unfortunates, but there was nothing he could do except offer up a prayer for their doomed spirits.

The next day, after a good night’s sleep, the Um Biyara broke camp and waved farewell to the new converts. Two of the missionaries stayed behind to ensure the villagers didn’t stray from the true path. If he was a betting man, Tel Hesani would have gambled heavily on both being ripped to pieces before the end of the winter, when the villagers realized they’d been sold a dream that was, in reality, a nightmare.

“I guess that wasn’t so bad,” Jebel said as they worked their way northwest. “I expected the Um Biyara to go at them much harder than that, with whips and hot irons. All they did was preach and make wild promises. The villagers didn’t have to convert. They’ve only themselves to blame if it goes wrong.”

“Yes,” Tel Hesani snorted. “But they were broken long before we came. They were desperate and didn’t take much persuading. I doubt things will go so smoothly when we run into a group less eager to convert.”

“You think there will be bloodshed?” Jebel asked.

“No.” Tel Hesani made a grim choking noise. “I think there will be horror.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A couple of days later they marched into another small village and again converted successfully, this time in a matter of hours — the villagers were close to starving and quick to clutch at a portion of the Um Biyara’s food.

The zealots were nearing the last of their supplies, but none of the Um Biyara seemed concerned. Jebel wondered what would happen when they ran out of food, trapped in the middle of nowhere, storms raging around them. Would they surrender to the elements and die, or kill themselves first?

When the time came for the question to be answered, he found out they had something far more shocking in mind.

It had been a hard day’s march, battling wind and snow. They had to push hard to progress, fighting their way forward with slow, stubborn determination.

Two of the weaker Um Biyara fell that morning and couldn’t rise. But unlike those who had dropped by the wayside before, neither was killed. Instead they were carried by the others. That evening, when they made camp, Qasr Bint came to talk with the pair. “Are you ready to abandon this world for the next?” he asked.

They told him they were.

“And are you prepared to sacrifice your carcasses?” he pressed.

“I am,” one of the two said.

The other hesitated, then nodded quickly when Qasr Bint glared at him. “Yes, father. Of course.”

Qasr Bint smiled and blessed the pair, then calmly slit their throats. As blood oozed out, the rest of the group moved in, knives in hand, and started to carve up the corpses.

“No!” Jebel moaned, unable to believe what they were about to do.

Tel Hesani’s face contorted. “Cannibals! We should have guessed.”

As each Um Biyara cut loose a chunk of flesh, he or she withdrew, sheathed their knife, then bit into the warm, bloody meat. Jebel had heard stories of cannibalism, the most inhuman of all practices, but he’d thought they were tall tales told to frighten children. Now he saw that such monsters really did exist.

When all of his people had eaten, Qasr Bint cut three chunks off the remains and held out two of them to Jebel and Tel Hesani. “These should not by right be shared with nonbelievers,” he said, “but we are a generous people.”

“Never,” Tel Hesani spat.

“Nor me!” cried Jebel.

“You’ll die if you don’t eat,” Qasr Bint murmured.

“We’re not afraid of death,” said Tel Hesani quietly.

Qasr Bint grinned wickedly. “You should be. We’ll eat you next if you fall.” He dropped the chunks at their feet and leered ghoulishly. “I’ll leave you to think it over.” He retreated with his own slice and devoured it with great satisfaction.

Jebel stared at the abominable offering, then kicked snow over it. He looked at Tel Hesani. “I don’t want to be eaten,” he whispered.

“Me neither,” Tel Hesani said, his face filled with fear. Then his expression hardened. “We must not falter. No matter how hungry or weak we are, we’ll force ourselves to keep going. We can’t be far from the next village. We’ll find food there, even if we have to steal it.” He gripped Jebel’s shoulders. “We can do this.”

Jebel nodded fiercely, then clutched Tel Hesani’s arms. “We won’t give in. We’ll go on together.”

The pair smiled desperately at each other. And for the first time ever, despite the fact that everyone he knew — even the gods themselves — would condemn him for it, Jebel didn’t think of Tel Hesani as a slave but as an equal.

A few days later, as Jebel and Tel Hesani struggled to match the pace of the well-fed Um Biyara, the group started down a slope to the as-Sudat, and the snow began to thin underfoot. Bits of bushes and grass poked through here and there. Tel Hesani leapt upon the bushes and after a hasty search found some frozen berries. He and Jebel rolled them around in their palms as they marched, breathing on them until they were ready to be eaten. They were so hungry that when they bit into the hard, bitter fruit, it was like eating the food of the gods.

When they reached the bottom of the slope, they saw a path running between the foot of a sheer cliff and the bank of the river for a mile or more, before it climbed again. The river came almost to the top of the bank along