The Gods Awaken

bridge of the Kray, lashed by wind and rain, he watched grimly as his chief executioner applied an ax to the exposed neck of an unfortunate sailor.

The offense: laughing at the king's clumsiness. Oh, the fellow protested he hadn't seen Rhodes slip and fall on the slick deck and was only laughing at a comrade's jest. And never mind that the comrade had supported his friend's innocence, swearing that neither had witnessed the royal mishap; and that the jesting and the laughter it drew was a mere coincidence.

If the king's mood had been brighter he might have shown mercy and spared the friend's life. After all, Rhodes appreciated loyalty to a comrade as much as any man. A tongue plucked from the liar's mouth with hot pincers would've sufficed as punishment.

On a feast day, or his birthday, he might even have reduced that sentence to a hundred lashes with the cat, followed by a bath in vinegar and salt.

However, Rhodes had just come from a quarrel with his mother and there was never any question that both men would have to die.

Usually, he would've enjoyed the proceedings: various tortures, performed by the executioner, so ingenious that both men were brought to the brink of death. Then their revival by a special elixir whose recipe had been the executioner's family secret for several generations.

And, finally, two satisfying whacks of the ax, with the cutoff heads posted on stakes as a warning to all potential transgressors that the king's dignity must be preserved at all costs.

Sadly, Rhodesa€™ heart was so troubled that not even these delights moved him.

All hands had been ordered on deck to view the executions. Soldiers and crewmen, ship's officers and royal aides standing silent and miserable in the rain as first one, then the other head was removed.

When the second head fell and rolled across the deck, Rhodes saw one of his men turn away and retch.

'That soldier!' Rhodes snapped at Tabusir, who hovered nearby. 'I want his head as well!'

'Which one, Majesty?' Tabusir inquired mildly.

The king stabbed out with a bejeweled finger, indicating a uniformed drummer's lad. Too young to grow a beard or to steel his heart against the troubles of another.

'I'll have no man in my army,' the king said, 'who can't stand the sight of a little spilled blood.'

Tabusir didn't point out that the soldier was probably no more than thirteen summers old. And after two beheadings the pitching deck was running with so much blood mixed with rainwater, that it splashed over the men's boots like spillage in a heaving slaughterhouse with stopped-up gutters.

Perhaps there was just a twinge of sympathy for the lad in the spy's heart. Or perhaps it was a pang of doubt at the king's judgment. In either case it was apparent from their gloom that none of the assembled men were happy about the executions. And maybe it was merely due to a spot of indigestion. After all, he'd eaten a hearty, heavily-spiced meal just before the day's bloody entertainment.

Whatever the reason, Tabusir swallowed his rising bile and snapped a salute so military-perfect that even in a drenched uniform he looked crisp and professionally eager.

'Immediately, Majesty!' he said.

Then he strode briskly off to collect two guardsmen. Moments later the surprised drummer's lad was dragged from the ranks and delivered to the executioner.

A mutinous murmur swept across the ship, silenced by growls from sergeants and bosons. Only to be aroused again by the lad's screams as he was forced to kneel on the gory deck.

'Please! Please!' the boy cried. 'I did nothing! Nothing!'

Both the pleading cries and the angry muttering stopped abruptly when the ax fell and the boy's head plopped to the deck.

Immediately, Rhodes felt much better. 'Three's a charm against all harm,' he murmured to himself, reciting an old nursery jingle. He smiled, trying to remember the rest.

From inside him, Kalasariz spoke up, finishing the doggerel: … Four's a chore and to all a bore;/ Five's a sty, not a pig alive;/ But six is a trick of the very best mix!

Rhodes chuckled, to the vast relief of all the aides gathered about him. Even these battle-hardened men worried that the executions were an ill omen and bad for morale.

'That's good!' the king said aloud. 'That's very, very good!'

Thinking he was speaking to them, his aides all murmured that, indeed, Majesty, the executions had been a remarkable performance.

Inside him, Kalasariz said, Thank you, Majesty. But it is you who deserves the greatest credit forthinking of these executions. I always found that a mass beheading was a lucky way to start a newventure. It both pleases the gods and chastens the men.

Rhodes nodded agreement, but this time he used his internal voice to reply, saying: It's amazing howmuch wisdom can be found in a nursery rhyme. From a child's mouth, etc.

At that moment, Tabusir came trotting up. 'All has been done as you commanded, Majesty,' he said, snapping another crisp salute.

'Excellent work, Tabusir,' Rhodes said.

He pulled the smallest ring from the collection on his fingers and tossed it to the spy as a reward. Tabusir caught it and bowed low, murmuring artful words of appreciation.

'Now go fetch three more,' the king said. 'And deliver them to the executioner with my compliments.'

Skilled as he was in covering his true feelings, Tabusir's gaze flickered. 'Pardon, Majesty,' he said. 'But which three do you desire?'

Rhodes shrugged. 'Doesn't matter,' he said. 'Choose who you like. The main thing is that I want six heads posted on the main deck.'

Then the king turned and strode from the bridge, saying, 'Lucky number, six.' Then, in a sing-song voice, he added, 'Six is a trick of the very best mix!'

And he roared with laughter, stomping down the passageway to his mother's quarters. As if on cue, the squall suddenly ended when he disappeared from view.

Stunned by the king's behavior, all the men were careful to keep blank faces and did their best not to meet each other's eyes. One of the aides, a jowly, red-faced colonel named Olaf, tried to pretend for all of them that everything was quite normal.

'It's good to see the king in such high spirits again,' he said to Tabusir. 'You are to be congratulated for such excellent service to His Majesty.'

His smile was friendly, but jealousy glittered in his eyes. Seeing it, Tabusir only bowed his head slightly in thanks.

Olaf made the mistake of continuing. 'Although I certainly don't envy you your next task,' he said with a smirk. 'It's not going to make you very popular with the men.'

He turned to the others. 'Isn't that so, gentlemen?'

There were murmured agreements, some louder than others.

He turned back to Tabusir. Laughing, he said, 'Tell me, young man, how do you plan to choose three more victims? By lot? Or will you make them draw straws?'

Tabusir pretended honest puzzlement. 'I'm not sure,' he said, his face worried. 'But I'll come up with something.'

'You'd better think fast,' Olaf said, amused at Tabusir's predicament. 'When the king wants heads he tends to be most impatient.'

'Is that so?' Tabusir replied. Then he frowned, as if musing. 'I've been trying to place your face for some time, Colonel,' he said. 'Then it came to me. Weren't you the officer who refused my commission a few years ago?'

Olaf's eyes widened in sudden fear. Jowls trembling, he said, 'Oh, it most certainly wasn't me!'

Tabusir examined the man's face with deliberate slowness. Olaf couldn't help but let one hand steal up his chest to touch his fat throat.

'Are you sure about that?' Tabusir asked. 'I'd swear you were the man. I rarely forget a face.'

'No! Truly!' Olaf squeaked.

Tabusir made an elaborate shrug. 'Ah, well, then,' he said. 'I suppose it's a case of mistaken identity.'

Then he bowed low. 'My apologies, Colonel for begging an end to this most delightful conversation. But I