The Master Executioner of Walaria snorted. 'Course. Filled five buckets, didn't I?'
'And you've been stickin to your diet?'
'Gruel and water'd wine, nothin more, Tulaz said. It's this big rush that's botherin me. I usually get some notice, you know? Couple of days at least to get into shape. Sides, I just broke me own record couple a days ago.
'Seven heads takes a lot out of a man, which most people don't appreciate. They just come and see me lop em off. Miss all the fine points. Don't know how hard I works to keep a good form. I ain't recovered from the seven, yet. Now I gotta go for eight, afore I'm even ready.'
'Don't think about it, the trainer advised. It's just one more day like any other. Keep that in your noggin and it'll work out fine.'
'Sure, Tulaz said. That's the trick. Just another day. Nothin special about it.'
The trainer poured scented oil on Tulaz and started working it in. And each head, too, he said. Look at em the same way. Don't count how many you gots to go. One or eight, what's the difference? They all gotta come off one at a time. Nothin special about that.'
'Yeah, Tulaz said. That's the only way they goone at a time. Thanks. I'm feelin much better already.'
The trainer chuckled and said thanks weren't necessary. He finished his task, covered Tulaz with heavy towels and advised him to take a nap.
'I'll call you in plenty of time, he said.
He crept out of the training room, but just before he exited he looked back at Tulaz. The giant executioner was lying face up, a brawny arm shielding his eyes.
And he was muttering to himself: Shut up, shut up, shut up. Wonder what he meant?'
For the first time in Tulaz long and illustrious career he was obviously distracted and suffering from a decided lack of confidence. The trainer left the room, wondering where he could get some money quick to lay off his bets.
The crowd roared. Safar was led out first, followed by Olari and six others, all manacled and chained together. Forty two heads had already been severed and the crowd was bored by the spotty performances of the executioners. But this was the main event: Tulaz, the Master Executioner of Walaria, was going for an eighth and record head.
Safar was nearly blinded by the bright morning sun. He tried to shield his face, but his arms were brought up short by a chain linked to a thick iron waist band. A guard cursed and prodded him along with a spear butt.
When his vision cleared Safar could see that he was being taken to a large, hastily erected execution platform in the center of the arena. It had been thrown up next to the dignitaries stand, where King Didima, Umurhan, and Kalasariz sat in pillowed and canopied comfort.
When Kalasariz announced the results of the roundup, Didima had decided to make the mass executions part of the Founder's Day ceremonies. The king prided himself on making quick, tough decisions, even if others believed them too daring or tradition-breaking. He thought the executions would whet the appetites of his citizens for the festivities that would follow.
'It will bring us all together at a special time, he told Umurhan and Kalasariz. Heal the discord among our citizens.'
Umurhan, a usually cautious man, had agreed without argument. Although he didn't state his reasons, the High Priest of Walaria had been troubled of late that his annual display of sorcery wasn't being greeted with the sort of respectful enthusiasm and awe it deserved. Fifty severed heads would go long way to warming up the crowd.
Kalasariz also thought it was an excellent idea, although he too chose not to mention them to his two comrades. For his purposes it was always better to get political executions out of the way as fast as possiblebefore families and friends and loved ones had time to work up a good, lasting grievance. Swift executions put the fear of the gods in them, quelling vengeful thoughts.
The crowd gathered to witness the event was the largest in Walaria's history. It spilled out of the stands onto the floor of the arena. Hundreds were packed within twenty feet of the execution platform itself and more were squeezing in every minute, crowing over their good fortune and clutching prized tickets Didima's soldiers were selling at premium prices.
Safar's guards had to push people out of the way as he and his companions in misery shambled toward the platform. People shouted at him, snaking hands past the guards to try to touch him. For luck, he supposed. If so, it was a sorry sort of fortune. Some cursed him. Some cheered him. Some cried courage, my lad.'
Hawkers mingled with the crowd, selling food and souvenirs. One enterprising young man had fistfuls of candied figs mounted on pointed sticks. The figs were painted with food dye to make them look like human heads. Blood-colored food dye streaked sticks to mimic the sharpened stakes Safar and the others would soon have their heads mounted upon.
Safar was too numb to know fear. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. If he had any feeling at all it was to wish it would be over quick.
All eight were led onto the platform, slipping on the bloody planks. Men with buckets and mops were cleaning up the gore from the previous executions. Others sprinkled sand around the cutting block to give Tulaz decent footing. The condemned were lined up at the edge of the platform, where guards doused them with cold water and gave them wine-soaked sponges to suck so they wouldn't faint and spoil the show.
Then Tulaz himself mounted the platform and the crowd thundered its approval. The Master Executioner was dressed in his finest white silk pantaloons. His immense torso glistened with expensive oil allowing the bright sun to pick out the definition of his mighty muscles picked out by the bright sun. His white silk hood was spotless, without a crease or stray thread to spoil its symmetry. Thick bands of gold encircled his wrists and biceps.
Tulaz went right to work, paying no attention to the crowd. First he checked the steps where the condemned would kneel, then the hollowed-out chopping block where each man would stretch his neck to receive the blade. When he was satisfied he shouted for his sword case. While he waited he drew on special gloves created just for him by the best glove-maker in Walaria. The palm surface was pebbled and the fingers were cut out to improve his grip. The crowd was hushed as an assistant presented the open case and Tulaz bowed before it, muttering a short prayer of greeting. The hush turned to a deafening roar when he removed the gleaming scimitar and held it up high for the gods to see.
Tulaz lowered the blade, caressing it and whispering endearments as if it were his child. Then he removed his favorite whetstone from a slot in his wide, leather belt and he began to hone the edge. Each slow practiced movement drew cries of admiration from the crowd, but Tulaz kept his eyes averted, his attention fully on the sword.
After a few moments Tulaz walked over to the condemned, still stropping his blade. He paused in front of Safar, who looked up and found himself peering into the darkest, saddest eyes he'd ever seen.
'It'll be over soon, lad, Tulaz said, his voice remarkably soothing. There's nothin personal, you know. Law says what it says and I just do me job. So don't fight it, son. And don't jerk about. I'm your friend. Last friend you'll ever know. And I promise I'll make her nice and clean and send you to your rest quick as I can.'
Safar didn't answerwhat was there to say? Nonetheless, Tulaz seemed satisfied and he turned away, stone whisk-whisking along the steel edge.
The executioner had mounted the platform still feeling edgy, unsettled. But after talking to Safar he found his nerves steadying. He thought, That's good. Al'ays nice to talk to your first head. Let's the gods know you're serious about your work.
He turned to the soldiers guarding the condemned. Get those chains off'n my heads, he said. And rub em down good afore the bodies stiffen up.'
Safar suddenly felt lighter as the chains fell away. Strong hands massaged him, bringing life back to his numb limbs. Then he was guided forward and he heard Olari call to him, but the words were lost in the crowd noises.
'Steady, lad, he heard Tulaz say as he was pushed into a kneeling position before the block.
Safar raised up to take one last look at the world. He saw a sea of faces screaming for his death. Some snapped out at him with remarkable clarity. There was an old man, howling through toothless gums. There was a
