10th of Cylus, 721
The curious souls of Fensalir brought along their lanterns and flooded the town square with light. They came like a swarm, in great numbers. In time, the silent standing and staring in anticipation lead to gossiping, chatter and laughter. Some had even brought rugs and blankets to set atop the snow, bottomless baskets bringing forth whole banquets for an improvised picnic. An opportunistic seller cried out the merchandise he carried with him, dried meat, bottled ale, or sugar puffs, all of which he packed over his body like a mule. In time, even a musician came and began playing some sort of drum in a corner. Its beat was loud, hypnotizing, and blood-starved. It was all about that execution platform, so clean and freshly swept from snow that its very neatness beckoned the eyes. A couple of kids had gone up on its edges, cheering and giggling and faking their hanging in gestures.
Death was good business, and a great source of entertainment. Children may stomp on ants, but adults feel the need to watch a man’s life escape him, as if part of an unspoken rite of passage. Thus, they dwell vicariously in violent novels, bloody theatre plays and even songs drenched in suffering of someone. It was either violence or sex, if not both. Many times, and when seen objectively, both were sides of a same coin. Then again, people were far from objective. Surely, if questioned, those very same curious souls would deliver hundreds of excuses for their presence. ‘To witness justice’ fools would say. ‘To see the spirit leave the body’ liars would retort. ‘To get it over with and move on’ Peake would say.
The nobleman stood in a corner, blowing into and rubbing his hands. The cold had almost buckled him, and the darkness of Cylus made him curse whatever Immortal trouble made for such a miserable season. A brief fantasy of a warm glass of milk and his woman in his lap kept him company, albeit its fantastic nature only made reality worse. Wrapped up in his fabric cloak made him feel like a caterpillar in wait of its transformation. When Ashan came, the snow started to melt and he came out of his cocoon cloak however, he’d come out the other side a worm again. At least he’d be a warm worm, he thought, bickering with the climate.
A roar of the crowd announced the arrival of the guests of honor. A silent procession of a chain-gang locked one to another and escorted by four Valkyron, two in front and two behind, parted the crowd from the southern end. The buzz died down as if strangled. The drum quieted down, and the merchant stopped its squeaky voice. Only the breeze, the clink-clank of the soldier’s armor remained – that, and the sound of the moving chains. Five men, wrapped in thin, worn-out garbs walked silently forward. Their heads were covered, and so the dread in their expressions remained a mystery to the spectators. They walked slowly, bound in legs and arms with rope, as if trying to feel the snow below their feet for the very last time. It was only a matter of time before someone exclaimed a loud “Justice!”. When it did, the crowd was lively again. ‘Murderers!’ and ‘Bastards!’ were the only two words recognizable in that swirl of voices rising in the darkness. Its bloodlust was almost as palpable as the snow below.
The outrage was turning violent. Someone spat on one of the prisoners, another hurled a snowball. Someone threw a fist and struck one of them in the ear. The soldiers drew swords to intimidate some order in the growing unrest, or else the execution would be much more brutal than intended – and the crowd would get their bloodlust met by their own hand. These soldiers hurried the prisoners towards the platform, shouting something Peake couldn’t make out but could imagine. This wasn’t his first execution. Executions were much akin to burials: they rarely differed one from another. The Ryn giant began making his way past the crowd, slithering through as best he could. His size made the task quite clumsy, and more than once he needed a shoulder to shove past a particularly sticky cluster of spectators.
The inmates were positioned atop the platform, facing the crowd, each standing just in front of the rope that’d claim their lives. The soldiers split up, two atop the platform, one on each corner, and two before it. Peake reached the stairs, but dared not claim them yet. Instead, he turned back towards the crowd. Their rage seemed to pour like boiling soup out a cauldron. Their lantern-lit faces had twisted in such manner he felt a shiver down his back, one estranged from Cylus’ cold. No wonder Kings buckled under the sight of a mob. From this mob came a face, a small, round, piggish face of Kenntin, escorted himself by two soldiers. He was small, fat, and aging, and yet his clothing set him apart immediately: he donned luxury and etiquette like a good-looking redhead dons high heels. Unlike most of the crowd, Kenntin seemed to be sweating.
“Peake, glad you could make it,” he greeted, bobbing his head. “Go on, get up there.”
Peake spun on his heel and climbed up the steps. The wooden steps creaked beneath his weight, albeit it remained firm once atop the platform. It was built to last, indeed. He stood aside on the edge of it, whilst Kenntin took center, one soldier to each side. He nodded his head, spread open his arms, as if swayed by the rabid emotions pouring from Fensalir’s denizens. He approved of it, and with reason. He had personally made sure the mercenaries were killed, and the large crowd and spectacle were only bonuses to his intent. The raw emotion flew through the town square for a few moments longer, and when it began to die down, he commanded silence through his arms. The roar died down like ember in the snow.
“People of Fensalir,” he began then stopped. Turning to a soldier, he retrieved a hollow metal cone. “People of Fensalir,” he said once more, his voice amplified by the metallic device. “Today is a good day because we, you and I, are here to deliver justice!”
A general roar of applause and cheers exploded from the crowd. One could do wonders if he said what everyone wanted to hear.
“Justice!” He proclaimed once more. “Justice, pure and simple, is what makes us who we are. A just people, a fair people, of caring people that cannot stand by while crooks come and try to destroy what we’ve built. Today, we witness how these five crooks finally pay their due!”
The crowd was almost seething by now. Kenntin allowed them some time to celebrate, then beckoned for silence once more.
“It’s a cold trial, and neither you nor I want to spend hours standing in the snow. And so, by the authority granted to me by the Circle, I will now pass judgement on these individuals.” He turned to the side and retrieved a fancy-looking scroll.
“Now,” he spoke through the cone. He walked back towards the line of inmates “the Circle has accused all members of the Falcon Mercenary Company, those being Damin, Passos, Kolnicho, Beberec, and Asimisalo, he read as he touched each individual when named. “Of the following: general thievery, breaking and entering, blackmail, and at least five known murders.” Another outroar, one that did not faze his reading. The emissary regarded the document in silence before looking up. “Of all these crimes, they have been found guilty, and sentenced to death by hanging until suffocation or a snap of the neck!”
There was no point in describing how the crowd felt about said judgement. Kenntin looked over at Peake and beckoned him closer.
“The Circle,” he resumed, stretching his short arm at maximum to reach Peake’s shoulder. “Is fair and just. Six men were accused of those crimes. This man right here, Peake Maxos, was the latest addition to the Falcon Mercenary Company but he was found innocent of all charges. Thus, he stands before you on this trial to bear witness to justice, to learn from the mistakes of others and to understand the consequences should he trespass against these lands and this city! Will anyone challenge his innocence?”
All eyes were now on Peake, hungry eyes piercing through the dark. Like wolves, they were looking for weakness. Peake, in his height, in his strong poise, regarded them back. His eyes, stoic and cold, moved from one individual to the other, challenging those eyes with his. From all the things he was, imposing stood out above the rest. It wasn’t perfect silence, but the crowd had quieted down very significantly, to the point which even Kenntin regarded him with caution. Peake did not appear like a witness: he appeared like the hangman. None spoke against his innocence.
“… uhm,” Kenntin began, trying to recover the spirit Peake’s presence had seemed to swallow. “And so, with their final words denied, I, by the authority of the Circle, declare these men guilty and unworthy of life. Let justice be served.” He dropped the cone. “You stay there, Peake. You’re the witness.”
Kenntin and his soldiers moved to the edge of the platform. Peake remained in place, then turned back towards the accused. The hangman, with his face covered, began slipping the necks into the nooses. The crowd was quiet now. A small sob came from underneath those masked men, albeit who it was Peake could not tell. Their chains were undone, but their hands and feet remained tied. They shivered violently under the cold of both Cylus and the rope against their necks. The executioner then moved over to the lever, looked over at Kenntin. With a nod back, he pulled the lever, the platform opened, and the men were killed in the name of justice.
Peake witnessed in silence.
