Executioner (Fantasy Fiction)

 For Mum

For her faith and inspiration

 

 

The drums in his head begin again.

Blood will be spilt, and by his hand.

He looks down at her, at lovely hair spilling across the block. The wood is old and notched in many places—from where the sword has bitten into it time and time again.

The thunder-beat sweeps him away, carries him to the knife’s edge. Teetering on this edge he feels himself filled with life, even as he is flooded with despair. He has a decision to make and this fills his body with fire and energy—he can choose how it ends. His life has been one uncontrollable episode to the next, but now he knows he can make a choice that is concrete and unchangeable. He can choose how to leave it.

A single tear traces its soft path down her cheek. She smiles sadly up at him, all things seem frozen, and he can see the message in her eyes: Farewell, my love.

How can she say goodbye so easily? How can she let go and accept so quickly? He looks into her and sees that she doesn’t hate—not him, nor his duty. She has lost hope and relinquished herself to the mercy of the Rain Goddess.

He is stricken with pain. It stabs at him; he wants to vomit. Then all is gone, swept away on a tide carried by the drums in his mind. Their din takes him over and he is empty of thought and feeling. His mind is a void, except for the music and the quivering energy that screams at him to fight. Rage against the darkness!

Those to be Witness to the execution step forward in the customary ring, demanding that he, the man known as Marcus, do his duty and make the Sacrifice. Their blades gleam brightly in the sunlight, unsheathed, their points driven into the ground. He turns his gaze back to the woman. Zubraine, I cannot, I will not. They ask too much. What kind of Goddess demands the slaying of her own? I don’t believe it, I won’t believe it. The gazes of the Elders bore into his back, their weight like a hammer, the pressure of their wills almost maleficent. Spill the blood, they roar silently, spill the blood so we all may live. Her neck arches so gracefully across the scarred block of wood; he cannot seem to tear his eyes from her throat and the thin tracing of veins beneath the skin.

Bowing their heads the Witnesses signal that it is time. He smiles coldly and nods in assent …

And draws steel.

His curved blade catches the first Witness in the chest and he dies with surprise etched on his features. The blade slides effortlessly through flesh as the man known as Marcus ends his foe’s life. The ease of the sword’s passage through bone and muscle pleases him; the flow of blood spilling down the blade helps satisfy the need of the tribal music in his mind. He spins, pulling the blade free, and flows to meet the attack of another man. He evades a clumsy blow as fluidly as a dancer and the man’s head departs from his shoulders in a crimson spray. His life force flows through him, fed by his anger and the violence erupting around him. He is aware of others behind him, attempts to turn even as he knows inside that he cannot be fast enough to avoid their weapons. Halfway to facing his opponents he feels a lance of hot pain in his side. He crumples and the beating of drums stops abruptly. He makes a last effort to strike out. Rage against the darkness! Like a snake’s tongue his blade flickers; he feels it bite flesh. Then he is falling and hard rock punches the breath out of him, sending pain ripping through him.

With a last, supreme effort he raises his head from the dirt. A pale hand traces his cheek, the lines of his jaw. His eyes follow the arm until it leads them to her face. She has not moved. She surveys him sadly from where her head rests on the block, blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Why hasn’t she fled? Why hasn’t she moved? As his life-blood drains out of his body he learns the answer from her eyes. Zubraine! How can you believe what they say is right? You and I we were not meant to bleed in the dust for some ritual of the Dawning. What Goddess de—

Other blows fall, shattering his thoughts, stilling the energy that flowed so strongly before. He feels himself slipping, knows that he can leave this life having dictated his last moments. He smiles, gently.

It is then that the Rain Goddess comes for him. Radiant, tranquil, yet blossoming with power, love, and … life … she takes hold of him.

She says, I will take your pain, cleanse you and wash you clean. I will make you whole again. Leave your mortal lives behind. And be resurrected in my light. 

He is aware of Zubraine as himself, himself as Zubraine. The Rain Goddess embraces them. And then there is—

White.

 

 

First Published in Adrenaline Magazine(2002)