platform. While the riders moved into place, Egrin rode through the guards, who drew back out of Old Acorn’s path. He halted beneath the edge of the platform.
“Stand up, my lord,” he said to Vakka Zan. The Pakin noble tried, then slumped back to the ground.
“Get him up,” Egrin said quietly. Two footmen dragged Vakka Zan to his feet. At Egrin’s order, a bucket of clean water was brought, and the Pakin noble was allowed to wash his face and hands.
“You’re to die soon. I can’t change that,” Egrin said. “But there’s no reason you have to perish like a pig, in mud and filth.”
“Your time will come, all of you,” Vakka Zan replied fiercely. “When word of this outrage reaches the true emperor, this entire settlement will be razed, and everyone inside will die a slow death!”
“The true emperor is our liege, Pakin III, who reigns in Daltigoth, not the charlatan you bow to,” Egrin said.
“The throne in Daltigoth is held by a usurper, with no right to the Pakin name! His head will soon rot on the highest spike in the empire!”
A crowd of townsfolk was gathering, drawn by the promise of a rare spectacle. The mob parted as Lord Odovar arrived on horseback in full armor, with Morthur Dermount beside him. Trailing them, the marshal’s retinue rode under a wide canvas awning supported by poles carried by mounted servants. Tol recognized bald Lanza and the marshal’s plump, blonde lady.
“Your voice carries far,” Odovar boomed at Vakka Zan. “But I doubt it will reach the Pretender in his squalid exile’s camp.”
The Pakin recovered his composure at the sight of his enemy. “It may reach Lord Grane,” he said coldly.
Odovar’s retinue shifted nervously, and the marshal flexed a gauntleted fist around his reins. The threat had touched a vulnerable spot. Grane had nearly gotten Odovar once, and was still at large with forces of unknown strength.
“Proceed with the course of justice,” Odovar commanded. “Warden, are you ready?”
“At your command, my lord,” said Egrin.
The chains were unwound from Vakka Zan, and the rivets of his shackles driven out. Burly footmen yanked his hands behind his back and lashed them with cord. Eight soldiers mounted the platform, taking positions at each corner and midway between. Facing outward, they presented their spears. Vakka Zan, followed by two guards, climbed the wooden steps to the platform’s summit.
“Lanza, do your part,” Odovar said.
The rotund man got down carefully from his horse and walked to the front edge of the canopy. The mist had become a slow rain, and he took care not to get his shiny pate wet.
“Great Manthus!” he intoned, lifting his hands high. His sleeves slid back, exposing hairy forearms. “See now our fair justice! Protect our Lord Marshal from all enemies, both of flesh and spirit! Disperse any curses laid upon him by the condemned or his blood kin, for he dies adjudged of the crimes of treason, rebellion, and the taking up of arms against his lawful sovereign! Hear us, O Manthus!”
So saying, he clapped his hands together thrice, then dipped first his right hand, then his left, into the voluminous pockets in his robe, bringing out dark red rose petals. These he slung in high, wide arcs. They fell on Lord Odovar, his horse, and the pavement around him.
Lanza nodded to his lord, and the marshal said, “Let it be done!”
In the center of the platform was a simple bench made of heavy planks. Without prodding, Vakka Zan walked to the bench and knelt behind it, facing Odovar and his retinue. He flung his long white hair aside and laid his head, right ear down, on the block.
Egrin mounted the steps. Tol’s heart pounded. He saw why Lord Vakka had turned his head the way he did: so he didn’t have to watch Egrin approach with blade bared.
Disdaining pomp or ceremony, Egrin shucked the scabbard from the gilded sword. Even in the dull light and drizzle the Silvanesti-forged blade sparkled like a fine jewel. The crowd of common folk strained forward against the ring of mounted warriors, eager to miss nothing.
Egrin did not wait. Taking the grip in both hands, he turned sharply on one heel and drew back the sword until the curved tip just touched the small of his back, then swung it down.
Tol did not close his eyes. Many around him did, soldiers included. He saw the gold-streaked blade flash through the air. Egrin let his knees bend deeply, putting his full weight behind the stroke. There wasn’t the slightest hesitation or delay when blade met flesh. Silvanesti iron passed smoothly through the Pakin’s neck and through the wooden bench beneath.
Egrin immediately recovered his stance and brought the blade up again. Simultaneously, the bench collapsed into two halves and Vakka Zan’s head landed with a thump on the platform.
The crowd let out a spontaneous roar of approval. The cost of the Ackal-Pakin war had been high, in lives lost, in misery, and in grievous trade disruptions. One less Pakin seemed a fine idea to those watching.
Egrin descended the steps, the unsheathed sword held at his side. His hands were spattered with blood. More blood coated the blade. Without a word, he presented the weapon hilt-first to Lord Odovar. The two men’s eyes did not meet, but Odovar took the sword by the handguard and tossed it to Morthur, beside him. Lips curled in distaste, Morthur held the Silvanesti sword for his liege lord. Crimson droplets fell from its tip.
Odovar turned his horse around and rode away. His entourage was slow to follow, as the long line of women and household retainers sheltering under the awning shuffled awkwardly around, trying to keep out of the weather.
Egrin’s second-in-command, Manzo, brought Old Acorn forward. Tol stepped up and took the reins. He led the horse to the warden, still standing where he’d handed Lord Odovar the gilded sword. Egrin accepted the reins and laid a strong hand on Tol’s shoulder. It remained there only a moment, then was withdrawn.
At Manzo’s command, the Householders formed up and rode out. Next, the corporal of the footmen ranked his men and pushed the curious onlookers out of the square. Soon the only people left were Egrin, Tol, and the two men from the town charnel house, come to take the body away. Vakka’s head Odovar had reserved for display in his hall.
After the body had been removed, Egrin mounted Old Acorn and departed. Tol ran after him, feet splashing in puddles.
The square was empty at last. Despite the rain, bloodstains remained on the platform for a long time.
In spite of all the wonders he had seen, and the kindness and good fellowship of Egrin and the stableboys, Tol decided to leave Juramona. Lord Odovar’s cruelty, matched by the viciousness of the condemned Pakin noble, left him feeling sick and disgusted. Life with his family, even amid the farm’s ceaseless toil, was better than the wonders-and incomprehensible ways-of this town.
He had made the decision to leave by the time he’d returned to the boys’ hall after the execution. The place was empty, as everyone was out working, but Tol huddled by one of the fires and dried his sodden clothing. The only food was the leavings of the boys’ communal breakfast-dried-out oat porridge and some crusts of black bread. Tol ate all the porridge left in the pot and put what crusts he could find in a scrap of old cloth. He would need food for the journey.
The master of the boys, Zolamon, found Tol in the hall, and drove him out with shouts and buffets. He was given a wide wooden fork and set to mucking out the horse stalls with four other boys his size. The work was no worse than what he did every day at the farm, and he quickly outstripped his fellows, clearing two stalls to every one they managed. He welcomed the labor; it kept his mind from dwelling on Vakka Zan or, worse still, his severed head. He could’ve sworn that, as the head rolled free on the platform, the dead man’s strange, pinkish eyes had shifted as though he were still alive and searching for someone…
Zolamon returned. He was called “Big Stick” by the stable-boys, and the origin of the nickname was obvious. He tapped a thick hardwood cudgel against his thigh as he strolled down the line of stalls, inspecting the boys’ progress. Tol thought Zolamon would be pleased with what he’d done, but the taskmaster yelled at him just as he did the others. Still, he didn’t hit Tol as he did two other boys, so Tol decided his work must have been satisfactory after all.
Supper in the boys’ hall was a noisy, confusing affair, but what surprised Tol was the quantity of food available. Certainly not as rich as the capons, venison, and beer consumed by the Riders of the Horde, but the boys’ stew and black bread were plentiful and filling. He’d never starved on the farm, but he never seemed to get quite
