The Execution

  As he squinted and drew the bow yet again, he was seconds too late as he recognized the cadence and size of a man he’d called friend. The arrow flew and found its mark. Ravan dropped the bow, paralyzed for an instant and squinted hard.

  LanCoste seemed to stop his horse in the shallows, to hesitate.

  Ravan could not tell. Perhaps, the arrow deflected from his armor, perhaps he'd missed.

  Nevertheless, the giant seemed ill-effected and started to press forward again, disappearing into the brush on the near side of the river.

  When sixty or so men swarmed Ravan’s small encampment, he laid down his bow and took up his horse and sword. Another dozen fell before he was pressed back hard against the cliff. He finally succumbed to the sheer number of them and was pulled from his stallion.

  Duval’s losses were devastating. He’d traveled with an army merely because vanity had pressed him to do so. Never had he anticipated the casualties his army would suffer, and he was enraged at the cost, not in pounds of flesh but in pounds of gold.

  Ravan was bent, beaten but alive, tied and pressed to his knees, when Duval arrived.

  The King of the mercenaries dismounted and approached the renegade. Ravan met his captor with a clear and calm eye, his body bloodied from battle but with a still and tranquil heart. He had one regret—he'd not taken Duval down with him.

  Nicolette stood close by, strangely calm as she watched the circumstances play out grim before her.

  Rage distorted Duval’s face as he neared the fallen man and his fury precluded words as he simply roared and lifted his sword high overhead with both hands. He had never in his life been so intent upon a task as he was at this moment, and his features were distorted in a sickening snarl.

  With a roar, Duval swung to decapitate the traitor kneeling before him. The blade swung heavy, clean, and ghastly true.

  * * *

  The air was cleaved by the massive weight of the blade. It made a dull and sickening sound as it met flesh, crunched through bone, and went true on its way. Blood sprayed in a glistening, red arc as the arteries were severed.

  The head twisted, flew terribly free from the shoulders and hit the rocky ground beyond with an obscene thud. It spun in place, then rolled, finally resting in all its surprise sideways, staring back at them.

  LanCoste was motionless, his great axe hanging loosely at his side as he stared, emotionless, at Duval’s decapitated body. It lay crumpled and lifeless at his feet. As he always did, he wiped the blood from the blade onto his thigh and heaved the weapon back into the scabbard on his back.

  A stunned silence ensued. No one stirred. What was left of the battered army stood transfixed, shocked by the event as though a thunderbolt had struck that very spot. They were blinded, deafened, and dazed, as though they were an army of stone.

  Ravan was most stunned of all. He stared in dumbstruck awe at his friend. LanCoste had just saved his life.

  Duval’s body ceased to twitch. Without the head, the serpent lay futile and lost in the dust. Decapitated, Duval appeared much smaller than in life.

  Shock gave way to bewilderment and confusion shrouded the faces of those who remained. Chaos ensued.

  LanCoste was the first to speak. He looked slowly around himself into the eyes of the other mercenaries and finally into the eyes of the man on his knees before him, and he spoke loud enough for all to hear, his voice thundering, commanding attention.

  “It is finished. I am done.” He said it as though he had completed a task for which he'd toiled his whole life, as though he had shed from his massive shoulders the weight of all ages and laid it at their feet as a gift. His face was sprayed with the wash of Duval’s blood. It found the creases and crags, dripped from the strands of his coarse beard.

  His deep-set eyes, bloodshot and hardened, looked slowly about. Then, he removed from his back the battle axe and dropped it to the ground. With one last look into the eyes of his kneeling friend he nodded.

  Then something remarkable happened. LanCoste smiled, for the first time that Ravan had ever seen—just before he fell.

  Ravan saw the arrow, buried to the fletching, in the great man’s chest. “No!” He cried and struggled violently, trying to regain his feet, to reach his friend, but the soldiers held him fast. “No!” he sobbed again.

  Confusion erupted. The remaining mercenaries struggled with no purpose and a lack of direction. Their losses had been so heavy, the carnage nearly complete, and they had no leadership. And now LanCoste had fallen and it was Ravan who'd killed him.

  They allowed him to his feet, hands tied behind him, and argued as to his end. Some of them were intent on killing him straight away.

  Suddenly, Adorno rode into the encampment, striking upon a white horse, with all the trappings of a King. “He’s mine! Do you hear?” he screamed. “Stand aside or I will have you all killed! He’s mine, I paid for him, and I sacrificed for him!” He jabbed his chest with his thumb to emphasize his point.

  There was only a modest settling of the crowd, but just then, Nicolette stepped forward. She was so quiet and calm, but effortlessly took control of the carnage around her. A hush settled over the crowd as she spoke, all ears straining to hear her words. “Take him and I will never marry you,” she announced to Adorno.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Ravan, still devastated by the loss of his great friend, struggled and started to protest.

  She held a hand up to him and continued, “I will return with Adorno, only if Ravan is given to the state for trial.” She raised her voice for all to hear. “Only if!”

  Nicolette knew Ravan would be tried for high-treason, but at some point, it might allow him to make his escape. If he stayed in Adorno’s jurisdiction, he would be put to death for sure, and not well. It was a risk she had to take. She looked Ravan clearly and solemnly in the eye as she spoke softly again, “And Ravan’s destiny becomes his own.”

  Adorno's terrible addiction threatened, clawed at him, and ultimately got the better of him. He fidgeted and fretted, but Nicolette forbade him the luxury of time.

  She withdrew from her robe a dagger. “Choose now, or have me nevermore.” She wrapped both hands about the dagger and pressed it to her own chest. A trickle of blood welled and ran steady down her porcelain skin, marring the perfect snow white of her chest. This was no boast, no calculated threat. Her intent was sudden and real, and without condition. None present doubted her.

  “No! Nicolette, No!” Ravan yelled at her, trying to move towards her, but he was held steadfast by the soldiers. He had no uncertain doubt that Nicolette would do as she threatened.

  Adorno held his hand up abruptly to quiet the crowd, as though his authority reigned above all else. “Don’t! Nicolette—don’t. Be reasonable my love...” He smiled cajolingly. Beads of sweat broke out across the hook of his nose and he pleaded. “You can have your way, darling. Just—just put the blade away.” His tongue darted nervously, snakelike, in and out of his small mouth. He turned his palms face up and extended one hand towards her as though to persuade her even more. “The state may have him, and he can rot for all I care. Just come home with me, my love,” he pleaded with her.

  Nicolette's actions had forced him into a corner, but if this was how it had to be, then so be it. Adorno feared Nicolette would never succumb to him completely, but that wasn’t necessary, for now he had the bargain, and he intended to hold her to it forever. Finally, she would belong to him—she would be his forever.

  She nodded solemnly, her decision immediate. Withdrawing the dagger from her chest, she allowed it to slip from her hand. It dropped with a soft thud to the ground. There were hushed murmurs in the crowd, most likely whispers of remorse for the sentencing of the ethereal beauty before them.

  Ravan protested, “Nicolette, no! You can’t! I will go with him, but please—just don’t...”

  Without acknowledging him, she turned away, rejecting his pleas. She walked over to the stallion, gathered its reins and mounted Ravan??
?s horse. It tossed its magnificent head and then, as though it knew the tide of the universe had changed, it yielded and obeyed her, leaving its old master behind. As she turned and moved away, Nicolette never looked back. The horse walked obediently on and they disappeared down the trail.

  * * *

  The wedding was extraordinary. Spring came unusually early, and the trees were dressed in magnificent lime green, the color that new foliage wears in celebration. The birds were courting and tussling for nesting spaces, and the town was alive with anticipation of the extraordinary event.

  No expense was spared for the ceremony of this unlikely pair. There was reason for festivity; the town had grown attached to the strange and lovely woman who walked so quietly amongst them, and they welcomed any match for the tyrant that was Adorno. Many believed the unity would calm Adorno, soften his hand upon the afflicted, temper his rage, and spare their daughters.

  It was a beautiful day and Nicolette was barely showing with child as she and Adorno followed tradition, promising their souls and lives to each other on the front steps of the church. They stood together and spoke their vows and the sacrament of marriage, softly giving consent.

  Adorno was in his most resplendent, white satin with a robe entirely of white ermine. It was a creature that symbolized purity, humility, and commitment. The decadence of an entire robe of such was unheard of, even amongst Kings.

  Their will was given and accepted, one to the other. They answered the matrimonial questions in turn, as the priest droned. After they confirmed their consent to one another, they entered the church for the wedding mass and communion.

  Within the lovely little cathedral that stood inside the confines of the castle walls, their family and only a few nobility and servants gathered to share in the mass. Nicolette’s mother sobbed softly as her daughter was given to the tyrant. Her father hugged her mother, and all present pretended they were tears of joy.

  There were no friends present. The closest friend one could figure was Moulin. He stood guard at the door, as was expected, and grieved the wedding of the fragile beauty for whom he’d fallen so deeply. His armor shown brilliantly. He’d polished it to perfection late into the night, out of respect for the sacrifice Nicolette made. Now, he watched the couple as they knelt in the sanctuary.

  His mind wandered and he imagined the flight the mercenary had taken her on. He speculated about the many nights they'd spent together in their magnificent exodus, the horrible things Nicolette must have seen. He wondered about the demise of Ravan, how he’d met his death. No one spoke of it; Adorno forbid even mention of the name.

  Strangely, Nicolette seemed unchanged at all—she was the same bewildering beauty who was swept away months ago. Only, her belly swelled with child, and Moulin was certain that it must belong to the mercenary.

  It was as though nothing had happened at all. This confused Moulin, and he looked up from his silent thoughts to see her. It stopped his breath and stilled his heart. Moulin would have given anything to have a bride such as this.

  Nicolette was as motionless as stone, exquisite in the midnight blue, satin wedding gown. Her skin almost seemed to glow beneath her veil as a single sunbeam cast down on her. She knelt upon the alter steps in the front of the sanctuary. Her hair was pulled back, covered by an exquisite embroidered henin, woven with jewels, the veil shrouding her face and back. The words that came from her lips sounded peculiar, incompatible with the nature of the joyous event, and they echoed hollowly in the mostly vacant sanctuary.

  Outside the walls of the estate grounds, bells rang in the township and people rejoiced. There were few excuses and little reason to ever celebrate under the rule of the tyrant, Adorno. And so this particular celebration lasted late into the unusually warm, spring night. Kegs were tapped, goats and pigs roasted. The feasting and revelry continued around the blazing of bonfires through to the dawn.

  When the wedded couple eventually retired from the castle celebration, Nicolette walked placidly in front of her husband to her chamber door. Adorno staggered drunk behind her and engaged Moulin as they neared. Nicolette stepped into the chambers, but Adorno hesitated and slurred to Moulin. “Guard this door and listen closely if you wish!” He gestured with a goblet of champagne, masturbating himself and sloshing the drink almost entirely over the pikeman. He barely caught himself on the door jamb before lurching away, slamming the massive door behind himself.

  * * *

  Inside, Nicolette looked over her shoulder as she slipped immediately from her bridal gowns. They rustled as they fell to the floor and she stepped carelessly onto them, crushing the beautiful satin, the pearls marred against the cruel stone floor. She stood before Adorno in their wedding chamber, naked and gleaming, as ivory white as a winter moon.

  “Come to me, my love,” she murmured and backed slowly towards the bed. She sat and stretched out on the silk coverlet, inviting him to join her there. Her skin shone iridescent as she spread her legs, enticing him.

  She had forbid his advances since their return, told him that she would renege on her promise to wed should he touch her at all before their wedding night.

  Maidens had consequently suffered at the hands of Adorno because of this promise but true to his word he did not touch her, and it made him want her even more. When her belly swelled ever so slightly with child, no mention was made of it. Adorno convinced himself that the mercenary had abducted and raped her, and he intended to abort the bastard child after they were legitimately wed.

  He swayed, determined to have her at once, and tossed the silver goblet aside. It landed with a clank onto the granite tile, bent now, and imperfect. He reveled in his capture; Nicolette was finally his—forever. His excitement mounted as he loosened his trousers and advanced on her, grasping his penis, coaxing it to life. He mounted her quickly and awkwardly, sprawling on top of her.

  Adorno never felt the silver dagger as it slipped between his shoulder blades. The alarm of his own body telling him that he had been betrayed was what he knew first. He startled, placing his hands against the bed on either side of her. He tried to push himself up from her, but Nicolette held fast with both hands around him, fixed upon the handle of the blade.

  Their eyes were but inches apart. She looked without emotion at the surprise in his, clutched him tightly, holding him on top of her, even as he struggled. She grimaced, twisted the blade more, and held firmly, even pulling him deeper into her. She smiled almost sweetly, curious at the expression on his face. Saliva drooled from his mouth onto her cheek and still she held strong, giving one final thrust with the blade.

  As he weakened, Nicolette pulled the dagger from her husband. She eased him from her gently, almost lovingly, so that he lie face up and neat on their wedding bed. She tossed the bloodied weapon onto the coverlet beside him.

  He looked so comfortable, so serene—except for the terrible horror in his eyes. He tried to talk but only gurgled and choked, spraying bloody spittle into the air so that it sprayed back onto his skin with a peppering of red. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and ran in a small river down his cheek and behind his neck.

  She leaned close, straightening his pillow. “What is that? What? Nothing to say?” she whispered softly into his ear as he agonized in his final death throes. Then, her voice turned cold and hollow. “Know this, Adorno. That it is Nicolette who shed your wickedness from this world. All whom you have hurt are now vindicated and I will raise my child without you. This kingdom will once more know a kind hand, and your lineage will be no more.”

  His eyes followed her as she rose and went to her closet. She ignored him as she reached, taking from the wardrobe a robe, and wrapping herself warmly in it. She reached for the decanter on top of the dresser and poured a draft of brandy for herself before she turned to look at her husband. As his eyes flitted and started to close, she remarked, “Yes, look at me as long as you can, for I am the witch who has murdered you, and all are now free of you.”

  As Adorno’s eyes closed for
the last time, she walked out onto the balcony, to sit for a while and watch the stars slide across the eastern sky. Tomorrow morning, she would watch the sun rise on a new kingdom, and she was fine with that.

  After some time, she came in from the balcony and went to her chamber door, pulling the massive ring until the clasp eased and the door creaked open.

  * * *

  Moulin was still at guard and seemed genuinely surprised to see Nicolette standing in front of him. In his mind, he'd already played over the events in the bedroom parlor and none of them resulted in her standing before him as she now was.

  He swallowed thickly, confused and, as always, overwhelmed by Nicolette in a way that he could not explain. He’d been uneasy about their wedding night, about what might be transpiring from within, having seen the swell of Nicolette’s belly. He grieved her betrothal to Adorno and tried to wipe from his mind the images of past episodes in Adorno’s chambers, when Nicolette had needed set loose from her bonds. Strangely, though, even then she had never really seemed captured.

  She stared blankly up at her guard for a second before speaking. “Someone has killed my husband,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a lie, it was the truth, and she said no more.

  “What?” Moulin was stunned. For a moment he thought he’d misheard her. He looked down at the frail beauty before him and saw the dried blood on her hands.

  “My husband is dead, someone has killed him.” She gestured inside, toward the bed.

  Taking her arms and moving her gently aside, Moulin threw open the chamber door and rushed to the bedside of his lord. There was Adorno, eyes staring blankly, blackened maw open in a silent scream as though he'd some terrible story to tell, but just couldn’t muster it.