The Barrowland Slayers

Chapter 19: A Hanging

"Just a moment," Gynefra snapped, as they were hauled through the central plaza. A wooden platform had been erected, with five looped ropes in place above trap doors. "The Ambassador, where is he? I demand his presence. Our people have a right to know that we're being detained here."

"Oh?" Inquisitor Varus smiled as the group was shoved into position. It was a strange thing—cold and serpentlike. His hands drifted over to a note, and he unfurled it, his cold grin widening. "This message came in during the earlier testimony. Duke Machovius reports that the Elven Ambassador is currently visiting the resort in the mountain town of Ainshull, and is not expected to return for another week." He let the note curl back together as he grinned at his captive audience. "Do you see now? No one is coming to save you. Speak truly now; unburden yourselves before the end comes. It isn't much longer now."

Gynefra glared as she was forced into place. The others didn't resist as they took their places. He had thought they might, in the end. But it seemed they realized their doom had arrived.

"I spoke the truth," she said with a sniff. "You chose not to hear it."

"Indeed?"

The Inquisitor waited for the guards to finish. Then they trooped past, spreading out to prevent anyone from rushing the stage. A crowd was swelling in size as people both old and young came, curious about the strangers who'd entered their realm from the plague-afflicted north.

"Citizens of Altia!" Inquisitor Varus boomed out over the crowded plaza. It seemed all of the city had emerged to congregate in the center of town, and it took an effort for their chatter to die down. "We have rounded up enemies of the kingdom accused of killing our brave border guards as well as trafficking undesirable elements from the Frontier." The Inquisitor paused as the audience booed appropriately.

He took a moment to breathe in the cool night air and savor his victory. Inquisitor Korso was nowhere to be seen, no doubt wasting his efforts stringing up more refugees along the riverbank. Duke Machovius, on the other hand, was waving to the crowd from a sheltered spot in a balcony along the governor's palace. A few stern guards stood in place, bearing long halberds and standards with the duke's family colors.

In the end, it is I who delivers justice.

"Hoods," he ordered, and the executioner nodded, slapping his assistant on the back. The younger man, clad in black, held five canvas sacks that were partly spotted with old blood. He plucked one out as he moved behind Jag, the first in the line.

Varus paused beside the Dwarf mercenary, perplexed to find tears streaming down his face and into his bushy beard. Jagruanda was murmuring in his native tongue, the words repeating again and again, but Varus was more surprised at his open display of sorrow. "What is this?" Varus rumbled. "Will you not face death like a man? You," Varus snapped at his assistant, "conceal his face."

He shook his head in disbelief. Jagruanda had seemed so strong before, but now that he faced death it seemed the fight had gone out of him. Varus felt faintly disappointed, though tears continued to fall from the Dwarf as he spoke to himself without shame, the words now muffled behind the canvas hood forced over his head.

"He cries for his mother, that he should die so far away from his homeland and that she should be left in doubt as to its fate," the Seeker explained. Her scornful eyes met the Inquisitor. "We do not have your kind's strange prohibitions on emotions. Have you no goodness within you? Would your mother not mourn your death?" She sniffed in dispain. "Perhaps she would not."

"The hood," Varus ordered, moving past the Dwarf as a thick canvas sack came down atop her head. Muffled as it was, Jag's words still came out loudly enough for the crowd to hear, but they were different now, steady and deliberate. The Seeker joined in at once, and Varus realized they were singing together. He stood still for a moment, taking in the strange dirge, hearing the jarring syllables dance and crash together over the clamor of the crowd.