KADEN
I wove my way through the troops who stood at ease laughing at the bottom of Corpse Call, happy to be relieved of midday duties. Pockets of soldiers called to me, welcoming me home. Most of them I didn’t know, because I was gone more than I was here, but they all knew me. Everyone made a point to know, or know of, the Assassin.
“Heard you brought home a prize,” one called.
The bounty of war. I remembered calling Lia the Komizar’s prize myself when Eben aimed to cut her throat. I’d said it without thinking, because it was true. All bounty belonged to the Komizar to distribute or use for the greatest benefit to Venda. It wasn’t my place to question him when he said, I’ll decide the best way to use her. Without a doubt, it wasn’t just I who owed him a great debt—all of Venda did. He gave us all something we hadn’t had before. Hope.
I kept walking, nodding; these were my comrades after all. We had a common cause, a brotherhood. Loyalty above everything. Not one of the men I passed hadn’t suffered greatly in one way or another, some even more than I had, though I wore the scarred proof on my chest and back. A few coarse remarks from soldiers I could ignore.
Look here.
Another call from somewhere in the crowd.
The Assassin.
No doubt weak from wrestling with his little pigeon all the way across the Cam Lanteux.
I stopped cold and stared at a group of three soldiers, smiles still on their faces. I stared until their feet shifted and their grins faded. “Three of your comrades are about to die. Now’s not the time for laughter about prisoners.”
They glanced at each other, their faces pale, then melted into the crowd behind them. I walked away, my boots grinding into the wet soil.
Corpse Call was a hillock at the far end of the Tomack quarter. The training camps spread out in a low valley just beyond it, hidden by a thicket of woods. Eleven years ago, when the Komizar came to power, there were no prepared soldiers, no training camps, no silos for storing the grain tithes, no armories for the forging of weapons, no breeding stables. There were only warriors who learned their trade from a father if they had one, and if they didn’t, brute passion guided them. Only the local quarter smiths banged out crude swords and axes for the few families who could afford them. The Komizar had done what none before him had, coerced greater tithes from the governors, who in turn coerced greater tithes from the quarterlords in their own provinces. While Venda was poor in fields and game, it was rich in hunger. He beat his powerful message like a war drum, calculating the days, months, and years until Venda would be stronger than the enemy, strong enough so that every belly would be full, and nothing—especially not three cowardly soldiers who had betrayed their oath and run from their duty—would be allowed to undermine what all Vendans had worked and sacrificed for.
I traversed the short trail that led to the top of the hillock, back and forth until I reached the chievdars who waited for me. They nodded to a sentry, who blew a ram’s horn, three long bleats that hung in the damp air. The troops below quieted. I heard the sobbing of one prisoner. All three were on their knees, wood blocks before them, their hands tied behind, black hoods covering their heads as if they were too repulsive to look upon for long. They were lined up on the crown of the hillock in plain view of all who watched from below. An executioner stood near each one, and the polished curved axes clutched in their hands glinted in the sun.
“Remove their hoods,” I ordered.
The sobbing prisoner cried out when the hood was snatched away. The other two blinked as if they didn’t quite understand why they were there. Their expressions twisted in confusion.
Make sure they suffer.
I stared at them. Their noses didn’t quite fit their faces, and their thin, shivering chests hadn’t yet broadened.
“Keep?” the nearest chievdar prompted. It was my job as Keep to move the execution forward.
I walked closer and stood before them. They lifted their chins, wise enough to be afraid, wiser still not to ask for mercy.
“You’re accused of deserting your duty, your posts, and betraying your oath to protect your comrades. The five you left behind died. I ask each one of you, did you commit these crimes?”
The one who had sobbed broke out in anguished wails. The other two nodded, their mouths half open. Not one of the three was more than fifteen years old.
“Yes,” each one said obediently in turn, even through their terror.
I turned to the soldiers below. “What say you, comrades? Yea or nay?”
A unanimous rumble as thick as night rolled in the air.
The weight of the single word pressed down on my shoulders, heavy and final. None of these three had yet seen a razor on his face.
Yea.
Every man waiting below needed to believe his comrades would be there for him, that no fear or impulse would deter him from doing his duty. One of the five who died may have been their brother, their father, their friend.
It was at this point the Komizar or the Keep might have cut a line, not too deep, in the throat of one. Just enough for him to choke on his own blood, to draw out his misery and make the other prisoners retch in fear, just deep enough to sear it into the memory of every witness below. Traitors received no mercy.
The chievdar drew his knife and offered it to me.
I looked at the knife, looked out at the soldiers below. If they hadn’t seen enough misery by now, they’d have to find it elsewhere.
I turned back to the condemned soldiers. “May the gods show you mercy.”
And with a simple nod, before the chievdar could protest the quick end, the blades came down and their sobbing ceased.