Dragon Wing

2

“Here is the assassin, Magicka,” said Gareth, gesturing to the bound—and-gagged prisoner.

“Did he give you any trouble?” asked a well-formed man of perhaps forty cycles, who gazed at Hugh with a sorrowful air, as though he found it impossible to believe that so much evil could reside in one human being.

“None that I couldn’t handle, Magicka,” said Gareth, subdued in the presence of the house magus.

The wizard nodded and—conscious of a vast audience—straightened to his full height and folded his hands ceremoniously over his brown velvet cassock; he was a land magus and so wore the colors of the magic he favored. He did not, however, wear in addition the mantle of royal magus—a title he had, according to rumor, long coveted but one which Lord Rogar, for reasons of his own, refused to grant.

Those standing in the muddy courtyard saw the prisoner being led before the person who was now—by default—the highest voice of authority in the fiefdom, and crowded around to hear. The light of their torches flared and danced in the cold evening breeze. The lord’s dragon, mistaking the tenseness and confusion for battle, trumpeted loudly, demanding to be unleashed upon the enemy. The stablemaster patted it soothingly. Soon it would be sent to fight an Enemy that neither man nor even the long-lived dragon can finally avoid.

“Remove the gag from his mouth,” ordered the wizard. Gareth coughed, cleared his throat, and cast the Hand a sidelong glance. Leaning near the wizard, the knight spoke in low tones. “You will hear nothing but a string of lies. He’ll say anything—”

“I said, remove it,” remonstrated Magicka in a commanding tone that left no doubt in the minds of anyone standing in the courtyard who was now the master of Ke’lith Keep.

Gareth sullenly did as he was told, yanking the gag from Hugh’s mouth with such force that he wrenched the man’s head sideways and left an ugly weal on one side of his face.

“Every man, no matter how heinous his crime, has the right to confess his guilt and cleanse his soul. What is your name?” questioned the wizard crisply. The assassin, gazing over the wizard’s head, did not answer. Gareth smote Hugh rebukingly.

“He is known as Hugh the Hand, Magicka.”

“Surname?”

Hugh spit blood.

The wizard frowned. “Come, Hugh the Hand can’t be your real name. Your voice. Your manners. Surely you are a nobleman! The baton sinister, no doubt. Yet, we must know the names of your ancestors in order to commend to them your unworthy spirit. You will not speak?” Reaching out a hand, the wizard caught hold of Hugh’s chin and jerked the man’s face to the torchlight. “The bone structure is strong. The nose aristocratic, the eyes exceedingly fine, although I seem to see something of the peasant in the deep lines in the face and the sensuality of the lips. But there is undoubtedly noble blood in your veins. A pity it runs black. Come, sir, reveal your true identity and confess to the murder of Lord Rogar. Such confession will cleanse your soul.” The prisoner’s swollen mouth widened in a grin; there was a flicker of flame deep in the sunken black eyes. “Where my father is, his son will shortly follow,” Hugh replied. “And you know better than any here that I did not murder your lord.”

Gareth raised his fist, intending to punish the Hand for his speech. A glimpse of the wizard’s face caused him to hesitate. Magicka’s brow cleared in an instant, his face smooth as a pail of fresh cream. The sharp eyes of the captain, however, had noted the ripple that passed across its surface at Hugh’s accusation.

“Insolence,” the wizard said coldly. “You are bold for a man facing a terrible death, but we will hear you cry out for mercy before long.”

“You better silence me and silence me quick,” said Hugh, his tongue running across his cracked and bleeding lips. “Otherwise people might remember that you’re now guardian of the new little lord, aren’t you, Magicka? Which means you can run things around here until the kid’s . . . What? Eighteen? Or maybe longer than that if you can keep your web wound tight around him. And I’ve no doubt you’ll be a great comfort to the grieving widow. What mantle will you wear tonight—the purple of royal magus? And wasn’t it strange, my dagger disappearing like that. As if by magic—”

The wizard lifted his hands. “The ground quakes in fury at this man’s blasphemy!” he shouted. The courtyard began to shake and tremble. Granite towers swayed. People cried out in panic, huddling close together. Some fell to their knees, wailing and pressing their hands in the muck and mud, shouting in supplication to the magus to ease his anger.

Magicka glared down his long nose at the captain of the knights. A punch from Gareth, given somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, in the small of Hugh’s back, caused the assassin to gasp and draw a painful breath. The Hand’s gaze, however, never wavered or faltered, but remained fixed on the wizard, who was pale with fury.

“I have been patient,” said Magicka, breathing heavily, “but I will not be subjected to such filth. I apologize to you, captain,” the wizard continued, shouting to be heard above the rumbling of the ground and the cries of the people. “You were right. He will say anything to save his miserable life.” Gareth grunted but did not reply. Magicka raised his hands placatingly and, gradually, the ground ceased to shake. People drew deep breaths of relief and rose to their feet again. The knight’s gaze flicked aside at Hugh, met the Hand’s own intense, penetrating stare. Gareth frowned; his eyes went from the assassin to the wizard, and they were dark and thoughtful.

Magicka, speaking to the crowd, did not notice.

“I am sorry, truly sorry, that this man must leave this life with such black spots upon his soul,” said the wizard in grieved and pious tones. “Yet so he chooses. All here are witness that I have given him ample opportunity to confess.”

There were sympathetic, respectful murmurs.

“Bring forth the block.”

The murmurs changed in aspect, becoming loud and anticipatory. People shifted around to get a good view. Two burly wardens, the strongest that could be found, emerged from a small doorway leading to the dungeon of the keep. Between them they carried a huge stone—not the lacy and delicate coralite of which almost everything in the city except the keep itself was constructed. Magicka, whose business it was to know the types and natures and powers of all rocks, recognized the stone as marble. It did not come from this island or from the larger, neighboring continent of Uylandia, for no such rock existed there[2]. The marble, therefore, came from the larger, neighboring continent of Aristagon, which meant that this block had been dug out of the land of the enemy.

Either it was a very old piece of marble and had been brought over legitimately during one of the few periods of peace between the humans and the elves of the Tribus Empire—a theory the wizard discounted—or Three-Chop Nick, as he was known, had smuggled it over, which Magicka thought probable. Not that it mattered. There were numerous diehard nationalists among the lord’s friends, family, and followers, but the wizard doubted if there were any who would object to a piece of dung such as Hugh the Hand losing his head on an enemy rock. Still, they were a hotheaded clan and the wizard was thankful that the marble was so covered with dried blood that few of Rogar’s kin would recognize the stone. None would think to question its origin. The marble block was about four feet by four feet and had a groove cut out of one side that was almost exactly the size of the average human neck. The warders—staggering under the weight—hauled the block out into the courtyard and placed it in front of Magicka. The executioner, Three-Chop Nick, ducked out from beneath the doorway and a tremor of excitement rippled through the crowd.

Nick was a giant of a man and not one soul on Dandrak knew who he really was or what he looked like. Whenever he performed an execution, he wore black robes and a black hood over his head so that, when passing among the populace on a daily basis, he would not be recognized and shunned. Unfortunately, the result of his clever disguise was that people began to suspect every man over seven footspans in height of being an executioner and tended to avoid them all indiscriminately.

When it came time to deal out justice, however, Nick was the most popular and sought—after executioner on Dandrak. Whether an incredible bungler or the most talented showman of his time, Three-Chop certainly knew how to entertain an audience. No victim ever died swiftly, but lingered on in screaming agony as Nick hacked and chopped away with a sword that was as dull as his wits. All eyes went from the hooded Nick to the black-haired prisoner, who—it must be admitted—had impressed most of those present with his coolness. But all those in the courtyard that night had either admired or actually been fond of their murdered liege lord, and it was going to be a distinct pleasure for them to see his killer die horribly. The people noted with satisfaction, therefore, that—at the sight of the executioner and the bloodstained weapon in his hand—Hugh’s face set in masklike calm, and though he carried himself well and forbore to tremble, they could see his breath come quick and hard. Gareth grabbed the Hand by the arms and, dragging him out of the wizard’s presence, led the prisoner the few steps to the block.

“What you said about Magicka . . .” Gareth hissed the words in a low undertone, and, perhaps feeling the wizard’s eyes boring into his back, let the sentence stand unfinished, contenting himself with interrogating the assassin with a glance.

Hugh returned his gaze, his eyes black hollows in the flickering torchlit night. “Watch him,” he said.

Gareth nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face unshaven. He had not slept since the death of his lord two nights previous. He wiped his hand across his sweat-rimed mouth; then the hand went to his belt. Hugh caught a flash of fire, reflecting off a sharp-edged blade.

“I can’t save you, Hugh,” Gareth mumbled. “They’d cut us both to ribbons. But I can end it for you quick. It’ll likely cost me my captaincy”—the knight glanced back darkly at the wizard—“but then, after what I’ve heard, it’s likely I’ve lost that anyhow. You’re right. I owe that much to her.” He shoved the Hand around to stand in front of the block. The executioner solemnly removed his black robes—he disliked having them fouled with blood—and handed them to a young boy standing nearby. Highly elated, the child stuck out his tongue at an unfortunate friend who had been hovering near, hoping for the same honor.

Grasping the sword, Nick took two or three practice swings to limber up his arms and then indicated, with a nod of his head, that he was ready. Gareth forced Hugh to his knees before the block. The knight stepped back, but not far, only two or three paces. His fingers flexed nervously around the knife concealed in the folds of his cape. His excuse was framing itself in his mind. When the blade sank into his neck, Hugh screamed out that it was you, Magicka, who killed my lord. I heard it clearly. The words of a dying man are, they say, always true. Of course, I know that he lied, but I feared the peasants—being a superstitious lot—would take it ill. I thought it best to cut his miserable life short. Magicka wouldn’t believe it. He’d know the truth. Ah, well, Gareth didn’t have that much left to live for anyway. The executioner grabbed hold of Hugh’s hair, intending to position the prisoner’s head on the block. But Magicka, perhaps sensing an uneasiness in the crowd that not even the excitement of a forthcoming execution could quite banish, raised a restraining hand.

“Halt,” he cried. His robes swirling around him in the chill wind that had sprung up, the wizard walked toward the block. “Hugh the Hand,” said Magicka in a loud, stern voice, “I give you one more chance. Tell us—now that you are near the Realm of Death—have you anything to confess?” Hugh raised his head. Perhaps the fear of approaching oblivion had finally struck him.

“Yes. I have something to confess.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” said Magicka gently. The smile of triumph on the thin, aesthetic face was not lost on the watchful Gareth. “What is it you have to regret in leaving this life, my son?”

The Hand’s swollen mouth twisted. Straightening his shoulders, he looked at Magicka and said coolly, “That I never killed one of your kind, wizard.” The crowd gasped in pleasurable horror. Three-Chop Nick chuckled beneath his hood. The longer this death dragged out, the better the wizard would reward it.

Magicka smiled with cool pity.

“May your soul rot like your body,” he said.

Casting Nick a look that plainly invited the executioner to have a good time, the wizard stepped back well out of the way, to keep the blood from spattering on his robes.

The executioner drew forth a black handkerchief and started to bind it around Hugh’s eyes.

“No!” the assassin shouted harshly. “I want to carry that face with me.”

“Get on with it!” Foam flecked the wizard’s lips. Nick grabbed his hair, but Hugh shook the hand free. Voluntarily the prisoner laid his head down upon the bloodstained marble. His eyes were wide open, staring unblinkingly, accusingly at Magicka. The executioner reached down, took hold of the man’s short braid, and yanked it over to one side. Three-Chop liked a clear expanse of neck with which to work.

Nick raised his blade. Hugh drew a breath, gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes focused on the wizard. Gareth, watching, saw Magicka blench, swallow, and dart hasty glances here and there, as though seeking escape.

“The horror of this man’s evil is too much!” the wizard cried. “Be swift! I cannot bear it!”

Gareth gripped his knife. Nick’s arm muscles bulged, preparing for the downward stroke. Women covered their eyes and peeped out between their fingers, men craned to see over each other’s heads, children were hastily lifted up to get a better view.

And then there came, from the gates, the clash of arms.