The Thin Executioner

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Jebel spent the three days before the mukhayret at home with his father and brothers. They spent many hours talking about what Rashed Rum, J’Al, and J’An had been up to since Jebel left, but said little about his year in the wilderness. It wasn’t that they weren’t interested in his adventures — they most certainly were! — but none of the three was convinced that Jebel had been to Tubaygat. They felt embarrassed talking about things that were probably pure fantasy. Jebel sensed this and kept his tales of wonder and terror to himself. He understood why they found it hard to accept his word. When he had proved himself, they could discuss his journey. For now it was nice just to chat about their everyday lives.

Many people wanted to visit, but a stern Rashed Rum turned most away. Two of the few he admitted were J’An Nasrim and Bastina — he could tell that both were truly interested in Jebel and not in whether or not he’d seen Sabbah Eid.

Jebel would have happily told J’An Nasrim about his trip, but the traveler didn’t ask many questions except to inquire as to the fate of Tel Hesani. Jebel told him as much as he could about the Um Kheshabah, of his bravery and loyalty, and J’An Nasrim went away proud of his old, lost friend.

Jebel also talked of his quest with Bastina, who turned up shaking a hand filled with three silver coins at him. He had forgotten all about the coins that he had given to her just prior to setting off on his quest.

“I decided to spend them on a memorial stone for you,” Bastina said, pocketing the coins again.

“But I’ve come back alive,” Jebel said, pointing out the obvious.

“Yes,” Bastina smirked. “But you have to die one day. I’m happy to wait.”

Unlike his father and brothers, Bastina believed him implicitly. Jebel enjoyed telling the sad-faced girl his story. She listened quietly, prompting him only when she required more details, such as when he was trying to describe the colors of the siq or the movements of the rock spirits. When he told her about his meeting with Rakhebt Wadak, she shivered deliciously, knowing the story would fuel her nightmares for months to come.

Jebel asked about Debbat Alg a couple of times. Had she said anything about him? Was she excited by his return? Bastina didn’t want to get sidetracked talking about her mistress, but she could see how keen Jebel was for news.

“Yes, she’s excited,” Bastina muttered. “She doesn’t believe that you completed your quest, but she hopes you did. The thought of being married to an invincible executioner appeals to her. She will be a most appreciative wife.”

“I hope so, Bas,” Jebel sighed. “She’s so beautiful, so exquisite…. But I want her heart as well as her face.”

Bastina stifled a snort — she didn’t think the high maid had a heart! — and asked a question about the Um Saga, to change the subject and take Jebel’s mind off the pretty but petty girl who would in a few days be his life-bound bride.

The day of the mukhayret dawned bright. The crowds had started to gather in the hours before sunrise. Excitement had been at fever pitch all week but escalated to fresh heights as news spread of Jebel Rum’s return. While almost nobody believed that the frail, skinny boy had met Sabbah Eid, they couldn’t be certain until they saw him in action. And if they were wrong about him… well, it was rare to be present when a new executioner was appointed, but if that executioner turned out to be a successful quester, it was more than the chance of a lifetime — it was the chance of a millennium.

The area around the competition fields was packed solid by the time of the first event. There would be ten events in total to test the speed, strength, and skill of the sixteen entrants. Four fields had been set aside, and two events would be staged in each. Another would take part in the river, and one on the streets of Wadi, where the entrants would have to run a ten-mile race beneath the blazing midday sun.

Mukhayrets normally didn’t draw a lot of entrants. Nobody wanted to be beaten and disgraced in front of a large crowd, so only those who truly believed themselves capable of winning put their names forward. But on this occasion there were many worthy competitors — seven from Wadi (three from the one family, which was unheard of), the rest from various parts of Abu Aineh.

J’Al and J’An Rum were two of the favorites. There were a couple of others strongly fancied by wagerers, but most of the serious gamblers were betting on Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh. He had been born in Abu Aineh but raised in Abu Judayda. He was a huge, steely-eyed young man. The others would have to perform to their highest standards to defeat the Um Judayda.

Jebel was the dark horse of the tournament. Almost nobody had bet on him, and there were only scattered, ironic cheers when his name was announced.

The first four events were tests of strength: rock throwing, two rounds of javelins — one with each hand — and weights. The weakest entrant would be eliminated from each event.

The young men drew straws to determine their order. J’Al was to go second, Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh eighth, Jebel eleventh, and J’An fifteenth.

Jebel studied the crowd as the first four contestants prepared to throw their rocks. Every class of um Wadi was present, the rich jostling for position with the poor. Except for the high lord’s box, there was no elitism at a mukhayret. You had to come early and be prepared to use your elbows to get a good view.

Jebel was especially interested in the people sitting with the high lord and his family. His father was there, and several of the city’s highest officials. But only Debbat Alg caught Jebel’s eye. She looked more stunning than ever. She had spent the last two days preparing for this. It was common knowledge that the winner of the mukhayret would almost certainly choose her to be his wife, and she wanted to look her best when her big moment came. Jebel’s stomach flipped when he saw her, and for the first time since his return he was glad to be involved in the competition.

To the sound of a mighty roar, the four contestants lobbed their rocks down the field. J’Al’s rock went the second farthest, so he was guaranteed a place in the next round. But he wasn’t happy with his throw, and Jebel saw him scowling as he returned.

The next four threw, and Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh’s rock went farther than anyone else’s. The crowd murmured nervously. Though he had the right by birth to participate in the mukhayret, nobody wanted to see an outsider win. The crowd could only hope that he was all brute strength and would slip up in the events where more skill was required.

Jebel was up next, with the third batch of throwers. His stomach fluttered as he stepped forward. He hadn’t tested himself since returning from Tubaygat. What if his powers had faded? Even if they hadn’t, how would he know his limits? He didn’t want to put all of his energy into the first few events in case he exhausted himself and faded later. But what if he held back too much and crashed out in the first round?

Jebel picked up a rock about the size of a boar’s head and was still trying to decide how much effort to put into it when the whistle blew. Panicking, he stepped forward and threw the stone wildly.

Jaws dropped long before the rock came down. It sailed far past any of the others, and over the heads of the people who’d gathered at the end of the field, where officials had thought they were well out of harm’s way. With yelps and screams they scattered. When the rock hit the earth, it had traveled three times the distance of Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh’s.

There was a long, stunned silence. Everyone tore their eyes away from the rock and gaped at the thin, ragged figure of Jebel Rum.

Then the cheering began.

There had never been such a noise in Wadi. With one throw, Jebel had won over all doubters. It had been so long since a successful quester had returned from Tubaygat that many had begun to think that the old legends were nothing but stories told to amuse gullible children. Now they saw that the myths were history. Gods did walk among them. So they cheered not just for Jebel but for their renewed faith.

The last quartet threw their rocks, but they knew they were throwing simply to avoid elimination — no ordinary human could match Jebel’s throw.

Jebel experimented in the next two rounds. When throwing the javelin with his left hand, he put less effort into it, to see what he could do without testing his limits. He finished a safe third, and although the crowd was disappointed, most guessed that he was conserving his strength. Many rushed ahead of the contestants to the next field, to catch another glimpse of him in action.

When throwing with his right hand, Jebel put a bit more power into it, and this time he won the event, although in less spectacular fashion than the first.

The weights proved to be a letdown. One of the contestants had pulled a muscle in his back while throwing the javelin. He gave his best but couldn’t lift even the first set of weights, so the event stopped there, before the others could move on to a higher level.

The first wrestling event was next. The contestants were paired off by drawing straws. The six winners would progress, then the other six would wrestle again, with the three winners of the second heat joining the first six in the next round.

There was a great buzz when J’Al Rum was drawn against his younger brother, Jebel. As the first pair of youths faced each other, Jebel stepped over to have a word with J’Al.

“Best of luck,” he said, offering his hand.

“You too,” J’Al said, looking distracted.

“Are you all right?” Jebel asked.

J’Al shook his head and sighed. “Have you ever had one of those days where you get the feeling that nothing’s going to go your way?”

“Often,” Jebel said with a rueful smile.

“This is one of them,” J’Al said glumly. “I felt it when I threw the rock. The gods are against me today.”

In such a negative frame of mind, J’Al was defeated even before they locked grips. Jebel threw him easily, then pinned him after a brief struggle. It came as no surprise when J’Al was beaten again in the second round and made an early exit. Jebel felt sorry for his brother, but then again, J’Al had always wanted to travel, and now he would have that chance. In some ways it was for the best that he’d lost.

Next up for the remaining nine contestants was the event known as the breath of Sabbah Eid, an irony that wasn’t lost on Jebel. They had to stand in the middle of a field, wearing only a piece of cloth around their waists, while burning torches were run over their flesh. The first to scream or faint would be disqualified.

While the other young men sweated, grunted, and sizzled, Jebel relaxed. The flames didn’t mark him, regardless of the fact that the two men working on him pressed the heads of the torches in closer than usual, curious to see how much heat he could take before he blistered. They never found out. While they were trying their hardest to burn Jebel, another boy screamed, signaling the end of the event.

Immediately after that came the swimming race. All eight contestants shuffled down to the as-Sudat, where they plunged into the water and gratefully sought relief from the burns and blisters of the fire. When they were ready, they lined up, then burst into life at a signal from the high lord.

People jogged along the banks of the river, tracking the race on foot, cheering on their favorites. For most, this was now Jebel. Even those who had bet on one of the others were willing him on to victory.

It was soon clear that this wasn’t one of Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh’s best events, and as Jebel streaked to a lead and held it, most eyes focused on the Um Judayda, close to the rear of the pack. While many had wished to see him fail, so as not to pose a threat to their own warriors, now they wanted him to succeed. They were convinced that Jebel was going to win the mukhayret, but they didn’t want him to do so at a canter. With J’Al Rum fading so soon, Zarnoug was the strongest of the survivors. They wanted him to go head to head with Jebel in the later rounds, so they cheered him on and warned him when he was in danger of being overtaken. With their help he came in a safe third from last.

The ten-mile race was next, and because of the numbers involved, three would be eliminated — no more than four were allowed to compete in the penultimate round. With the exception of Jebel, the contestants were weary and strained. A ten-mile jog in the noon heat was a burden they would have happily forgone. But there was nothing for it except to grit their teeth and hope their legs didn’t fail.

Jebel could have led from the start, but he felt sympathetic towards the young men he was racing against and didn’t want to stretch them too far. So he remained with the pack, biding his time, letting J’An take the lead. This was J’An’s best event, the one he had been most looking forward to. His enthusiasm had faded with exhaustion, but once he found himself on the streets, cheered on by the crowds, he discovered fresh strength and doggedly pushed on.

One of the racers fell at the three-mile mark. The others held as a pack until, with just under two miles remaining, Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh increased the pace. J’An broke with him, and so did Jebel. The others were unable to catch them, so they hung back and prepared for the final hundred yards, when they would stage their own contest to determine which of them would qualify with the three in front.

Once Zarnoug was satisfied that they couldn’t be caught, he fell to the rear of the leaders. He wasn’t interested in winning the race but in the next two events, which would determine the overall champion. Let the Rum brothers scrap among themselves for momentary triumphs — he would conserve his power and thrust for glory when it mattered most.

Jebel could have taken the lead, but he knew how much a win would mean to J’An, so he hung back. When J’An crossed the line first, to wild roars of approval, the only person prouder than him and their father was his younger brother Jebel.

When the fourth and final contestant had been decided — a boy from a town in the green belt around Wadi — the draw was made for the second round of wrestling. Most people were hoping for a J’An-and-Jebel pairing, but they were disappointed. Zarnoug was drawn against the elder Rum, while Jebel was to face the boy from the farmlands.

Zarnoug and J’An wrestled first, the best of five throws or pins. J’An was drained after the race. He gave it his all, but nobody was surprised when he lost by three throws to one. He walked away disheartened, but the rapturous cheers of the crowd soothed his disappointment.

Jebel was up next. Some were fearful that he might slip at this late stage and be disqualified. They watched nervously as he dusted his hands and stepped into the circle. But when he caught the boy from the green belt and lobbed him five or six yards at the first attempt, they knew there would be no mistakes. Two more throws followed, then only Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh stood between Jebel and the grand prize.

But how would Jebel fare in the final event? It was a test of skill, not just strength. An executioner had to be more than tough. He needed to be able to sever a neck with an artist’s eye.

Two thick logs were produced. Both had been cut from the same tree and tested for defects. There was a thin mark on both. Each contestant had to chop his log in two, hitting the mark each time. If they both struck true, the one who cut through with the fewest blows would be the winner.

It was a nervous moment when the draw to see who would go first was made. Placing was everything. The one who went second had the advantage. If the first missed the mark when striking, it didn’t matter how many attempts the second took — as long as he was careful and hit the mark each time, he couldn’t lose. So when Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh drew the short straw, the cheers were deafening.

Zarnoug dismissed his misfortune with a shrug and stepped forward. Taking hold of the axe, he fixed his gaze on the log, then brought his axe up, around, and down — and struck true. It was a solid strike, deep into the heart of the log. He put his foot on the log before it stopped shaking and yanked his axe out. A pause, a short breath, then he swung again.

In the crowd a young child’s toes were trampled by a large man eager to get a better view, and the injured boy shrieked aloud. The cry startled Zarnoug, and he struck a fraction wide. His axe bit deep into the log — but he had chipped outside the mark.

Zarnoug threw his axe away, disgusted, and glared at the child. The um Wadi muttered among themselves while the judges debated whether or not to eliminate Zarnoug. Before they could conclude their deliberations, Jebel stepped up, grabbed his axe, and swung it into his log, far wide of the central mark.

The crowd bellowed their approval. By fudging his strike, Jebel had negated Zarnoug’s miss, so both had to start again with fresh logs. Zarnoug nodded at Jebel to show his respect, then focused on his breathing and tuned out the sounds of any more screaming infants.

Zarnoug attacked his second log with the fierceness and sharpness of one who had tasted defeat and had no intention of sipping from that bitter well again. His first blow went almost to the middle of the log, his second took him to within a hair’s breadth of severing it completely, and his third finished the job.

The Um Judayda received a standing ovation. It was rare for an apprentice executioner to break a log with just three blows, and even though many in the crowd were against him, they appreciated the skill with which he had struck.

When the applause died away, Jebel stepped forward. Grasping the handle of the axe, he focused on the mark at the center of his log. For a moment he imagined it to be a human neck and shuddered. But then he put that image behind him and pretended it was a link in a chain of injustice. It was slavery, brutality, hatred, ignorance. It was the cry of the bigot who believed all others must think as he did or perish. It was the torment of the suffering, the spirits of the unhappy dead, the snicker of false Masters. It was all that was wrong with Makhras.

With a roar, Jebel brought his axe smashing down, thinking not of victory but only of ridding Makhras of the blight of wicked men. The head of his axe hit the mark in the center, cut down to the heart of the log, then kept on going, all the way through, to bury itself in the earth beneath.

The crowd froze. It should have been impossible to split a log with a single blow. The logs were handpicked by experts to ensure that they would require at least three strikes. This had never happened before. Nobody had ever thought that it could.

As the moment of shock passed, everyone leapt high and punched the air, even Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh. Then they rushed forward to surround, embrace, and revere the unlikely winner of the mukhayret… Jebel Rum… the thin executioner!