The Barrowland Slayers

Chapter 20: Never Give Up

Life passed in slow motion as Gynefra felt the rope tearing into her windpipe. The drop had been short, and her neck hadn't snapped from the initial impact, even as her feet swung wildly underneath. She couldn't tell whether that was good fortune or bad. As it was, she had perhaps another minute of life in her, and no matter how she tugged at her bonds she could not free her hands. Her heart thudded in her head, mixing with the sounds of shouting, the crowd sounding like baying hounds thirsting for her death.

Where did we go wrong?

It had seemed so simple at first. A small expedition into human lands, to get to the source of a plague that likely wouldn't have even affected them. Yet it had always been a matter of odds, in the end.

She hadn't expected to live when General Brynfried had been cut down and his division surrounded by the relentless, thirsting horde of orcs. She hadn't expected to live a decade later, when one of her early assignments for the Watchful Tower had turned into a massacre, deep underneath the caverns of a former Dwarven fortress. Even twenty years ago, staring into the soulless gaze of a Putrified Reaper as it tore great chunks of solid stone away with each blow, gouging deeper and deeper into the settlement she'd been tasked to protect.

Yet even after everything I've been through, to be executed by humans?

Gynefra tasted bitter disappointment with each final struggling breath. It had been some consolation to have seen her young companion prove himself in battle, fighting alongside these strange folk, who had exceeded every expectation she'd had. To die beside these comrades, next to the newest battlemage of the Watchful Tower, was at least a small comfort.

Perhaps she should have relaxed and given in to the end.

Yet still she thrashed, with all the energy that was still left to her, determined to prolong her already lengthy life.

And I will make a mockery of your supposed justice.

Gynefra couldn't quite be sure, but it had seemed the execution hadn't been going according to plan. The Inquisitor had seemed rattled, concerned about something beyond his own show trial, and even with the hood in place Gynefra had made out shouts of alarm in the distance. She wondered at that now, even as she breathed raggedly, the strain on her throat too much to resist.

Are the undead already here? Good... then... die at their hands.

A last, faint whisper breathed through her lips.

Gynefra hung in place, gently swinging, her thoughts fading away.

And then she fell.

The impact would have knocked the breath out of her, had she any remaining. Instead she coughed, gasping for air as the pressure lessened on her throat. Her hands twitched, pinned down below her. She felt something grasping at her hood—and then it was torn away, Jag staring down at her for a moment before brusquely turning her on her side.

"What," she attempted, before breaking into a fit of coughs. She felt Jag's hands on the rope pinning her wrists together. It tore free a moment later, and she worked her arms free, grimacing at the pain. Her shoulders ached, her lungs were on fire, her throat was dry and breathing ragged, and it was all she could do to accept Jag's help and rise to her feet below the wooden platform. Her vision reeled. Beyond the platform she could make out torsos and legs, those in the plaza seeming almost to dance in some bizarre shuffle.

A woman fell, panicking as she lifted a hand up in defense, and then a man toppled onto her, biting into her neck like a ravenous dog. Gynefra worked her mouth free, summoning up what little moisture she had, and spit onto the ground.