The warriors dragged Urcon onto the platform, where Ereni and the other imperators waited, and the barrage of stones ceased. The old man was bleeding and sobbing, and he remained prone in front of the leaders of the clans.
“The gods have borne witness to your crimes, Urcon!” Ereni inclined her head to each of the towers. “And unless one of them sees fit to stay my hand, let them bear witness to your punishment!”
Everyone in the crowd lifted their hands to make the sign of the Six against their chests, and though she was typically careful never to do so around the Cel, Teriana did the same.
Ereni hefted an axe, the blade wet and glinting from the rain, and the crowd screamed for blood. Her mouth moved, but it was impossible to hear her over the noise of the crowd.
“What did she say?” Titus asked, and Teriana curbed the urge to tell him to be quiet.
“She told him to get up.” Marcus’s tone was flat. “For Arinoquians, it’s a matter of honor to face one’s execution bravely in order to earn the favor of the gods. She’s giving him the opportunity to regain face before he dies. An opportunity to save himself from being taken by the Seventh god to the underworld.”
How do you know that? Teriana wondered. Who told you?
Do you believe it?
Titus spit on the ground. “Pagan nonsense. Bastard deserves to die on his knees.”
“Titus,” Marcus said, “shut up.”
At any other time, Teriana would’ve smirked, but it was all she could do to keep her stomach contents in check as Ereni again shouted at Urcon to get to his feet. Instead, the ancient tyrant attempted to crawl to the edge of the platform, trying to flee his execution.
Expression tightening, Ereni barked an order at her warriors, who grabbed hold of Urcon’s ankles and dragged him back to the center of the platform. He managed to extricate himself from their grip, curling into a ball like a frightened child. The warriors forced his body straight, trying to get him into a position where Ereni could swing, but Urcon writhed and twisted.
This isn’t right.
Next to her, Marcus rocked slightly on his heels, and when she glanced at him, his jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. Stop this, she willed him. Stop it, before it’s too late.
The crowd was losing its momentum, the noise diminishing as more warriors dragged an execution block onto the platform, tying Urcon to it so that his arms were splayed out. Ereni said something to the other imperators, who all nodded. Then her gaze flicked in Marcus’s direction.
He didn’t so much as twitch.
The axe blade gleamed as Ereni swung it through the air, slicing through the falling rain, time seeming to slow to a crawl as it descended. But instead of striking true, it embedded in the base of Urcon’s skull. The old man screamed in agony.
Grimacing, Ereni jerked the blade free and swung again, but this time hit Urcon’s shoulders, the axe sinking deep in the muscle. The old man howled, and Teriana gagged, covering her mouth.
“I’m not watching this,” Felix growled, turning, but Marcus reached past Teriana, catching his second-in-command’s arm.
“We helped make this happen. So we will watch.”
Ereni swung the axe a third time, the blade sending droplets of blood flying over the crowd, which was no longer cheering.
This time her aim was true, and the weapon severed Urcon’s head from his neck. She reached down and picked it up, holding it high. Blood poured down, glistening crimson droplets joining the rain on the platform, Urcon’s eyes dull and sightless. “The tyrant is dead!”
The crowd repeated Ereni’s words over and over. Teriana wondered whether Urcon was being dragged down to the underworld with their screams in his ears. And whether he deserved it.
“The tyrant may be dead,” Marcus echoed the crowd’s refrain. “We shall see about the tyranny.”
“Why do you say that?” Teriana murmured under her breath.
“Because,” he said, turning away from the bloody scene. “This particular tyrant wasn’t working alone.”
2KILLIAN
Despite the cold, the smell of corpse was heavy in the air. The sickly sweetness of rotting flesh mixed with opened bowel, and there was something about it that told Killian it was human, not beast.
Sliding off the side of his horse, he dropped the reins and moved forward on foot, easing over the embankment toward a thicket of dead bushes. The wind howled, tearing at his cloak as he drew closer, heart beating faster and faster until he swore it would tear from his chest.
Please don’t let it be her.
Please let it be her.
The thoughts alternated back and forth, same as they always did, fear and grief warring with his desire for this search to be over. To have closure, even if his guilt would remain.
As he reached the thicket, his eyes picked out the familiar shape in the snow. A body facedown, legs splayed and cloak flipped up, concealing the head. A woman, judging from the skirts, which were stiff with dried blood. Small and slender.
Please don’t let it be her.
Please let it be her.
Hand shaking, Killian reached down and rolled the body, cringing as the woman’s frozen hair peeled away from the ground.
Not her.
“Malahi was wearing a red velvet dress that day.”
He lurched upward at the voice from behind him, drawing his sword even as he whirled around. His blade came to rest against Bercola’s throat.
The last time he’d seen her was on the battlefield at Alder’s Ford, her holding the spear she intended to use to safeguard Malahi’s plot to assassinate her own father, King Serrick. The spear that had ended up embedded in Killian’s side, the wound nearly the death of him. “You should have stayed gone.”
The giantess’s throat moved as she swallowed, colorless eyes unreadable as she regarded him. “Probably.
