— KATARINE—
CONTENT WARNING: Post contains strong language and mentions of hanging.
NEAR THE MAGE CAMPS OF BELLKRATH
The northern mountains jutted into the grey sky, ringed like cold sentries over the town of Farien.
Its square rang with the cry of temple bells; a gallows had been erected in the courtyard, three ropes fluttering in the errant wind. A caw sounded from above—already the ravens gathered, alighting on a gnarled tree with soft
quorks and ruffling wings.
Katarine d'Arte set her mouth into a grim line.
A soldier from Reajh scowled as he marched beside her, prodding the prisoners along with the butt of his spear. Chains clinked as they shuffled—a straw-haired man and a weeping woman, followed by a lanky boy beat half to unconsciousness. The youth stumbled, kicking up the dust under his bare feet; after a wobbling moment he righted himself again, staring out at the crowd through a swollen eye.
Maven Falkheim did not want to die.
He sucked in his lips, inhaling hard as his gaze swept the gathered. Women hid their children in their skirts; the faces that stared back at him paled in equal parts fear and loathing—a few would not even meet his eye. Maven stumbled forward, heart pounding against his ribs, and came to a halt in front of the gallows. His Mother wept—Father stayed silent, his eyes elsewhere, mouthing silent prayers to the Lord.
The world misted. Swallowing a hard lump in his throat, the boy stared down at his bloody feet, unable to breathe.
"Maven Falkheim," barked a voice to his left. The soldier behind him wrenched his head up, forcing him to stare into the cold blue eyes of a woman. Trembling, the boy stood, fixed in horror and loathing, as she put a hand on the pommel of her sword.
"...You stand accused of freeing mages from the northern camps, colluding with the Unmarked, and practicing the Dark Crafts yourself. You have blasphemed the Lord." Heat rose in her voice. Her knuckles jumped, white where they clawed into the hilt of her blade.
"By the will of the Grand Duke, you are sentenced to death."
The words punched his gut. Of a sudden he couldn't breathe—the world was closing in—his head felt like a struck bell, spinning, spinning—everything looked so colorful, each detail carved with the precision of a master sculptor...
Mother gave a whimpering cry, sinking to her knees.
The crowd erupted into protest.
"—the boy's family did
nothing—"
"—they have a babe, she shall be orphaned—"
"—what proof have you—?"
"Fair trial," a ruddy-faced man howled, his eyes bulging. "He deserves a fair trial!"
A murmur of assent swept through the crowd. Katarine's hand twitched instinctually on her sword, heart pumping.
"Take me instead," the boy's mother squalled, raising her wet, blotchy face. Her eyes shone with tears, hair frayed, her dirty hands clawing towards her boots in desperation. "Leave my boy—my boy— my son— let him live—" a sob hitched her throat. "Are you a mother? Then you'd understand—my boy— p-p-please—" she twisted her hands, face screwing up in a red rictus. "Please—have mercy—"
Katarine pursed her lips. Metal clinked as she moved her foot ever to the left, well out of reach of the woman's filthy fingers.
"Your
son stands in violation of the Grand Duke's law," the Adhara boomed back, towering over the woman. "Let him be an example to all who oppose God's will." The rabble gave more howls of protest, buzzing like an angry hive. Katarine's heart pumped hard, jaw set as she motioned for another soldier to prepare the gallows.
Slowly, the boy's Father craned his head up. Nothing lived in his eyes—they had gone blank and hollow with acceptance, mouth twitching under his sandy mustache. For a moment their gazes met— the man's face crumpled, contorting as if he verged on tears—his lips twisted, pursed—
Spit flew from his mouth and splashed her greaves.
"Evil
cunt," the peasant rasped, eyes wild through a tangle of hair.
The soldier behind the boy sprung into action, lifting his spear to hit the man, but Katarine rose her hand, shaking her head.
"No," she murmured, examining the prisoner as if she just noticed his existence. "Leave him." Confusion melted some of the hatred in the peasant's face, wilting his scowl.
"Hang him last," Katarine barked, lowering her hand. "Let him watch his boy and wife die."
To her satisfaction, the little color left in his face drained away. His wife wailed another sob, clinging to her trembling, dead-eyed son. The soldier wrestled her away, prying her from Maven's shoulders as she shrieked, kicking like a wild horse. Katarine flanked him as the boy was wrenched forward, nodding to a soldier standing beside the noose.
The mother screamed incoherently—the rabble howled, yelling for a fair trial, cursing the Duke, shrieking obscenities—
should hang them all, Katarine thought, temple pulsing with blood—the boy sobbed ahead of her, writhing in his chains—
I don't want to die, he was shrieking, making her head hurt—
filthy scum, bellowed the crowd, the senseless buzz of insects,
Duke's bitch— whore— savages— traitors of Ansgar—hang them all, she should—the soldiers barked orders to the crowd, spears flashing in the watery light—the boy was sobbing, sobbing as she looped the rope around his neck—
That's when the first rock came.
It bounced harmlessly off her breastplate, skittering across the cobbles like a grey rat. When she looked up, a sea of angry eyes met her—soldiers shouted— it happened quick as thunder: a flash of steel, a spurt of blood, and a man collapsed on the ground, clutching his shoulder.
The rabble roared.