felt my mouth open, my jaw going wide. The image of Gern drew itself in my head, like some terrible artist was doing his worst upon the canvas of my mind. Without ever having to see the body, I knew of what Erik spoke. I knew what the body of poor Gern would look like.
Kronan outriders, charged with keeping their lord's borders free of our spies, showed no mercy to those watchers when they caught them. They started by slashing into the stomach, just below the navel. They swept upward quickly, opening up the poor scout from his waist to just below the neck. It was enough to draw forth terrible cries, since the throat was spared. The sword then swept downward from its high point just below the throat, down the left side, underneath the arm. The Kronan butcher would then sweep up until he severed the muscles under the left arm. The blade then slide its way across the chest, likewise cutting down the right arm.
The pattern of slashes was uniform from victim to victim. It was, or so we were told, some manner of offering to their terrible gods, who demanded helpless, yet very much alert victims. From the destruction of the arms, the blade worked its way downward, in a pattern that could only be described in words not fit to hear. When death came, it was likely welcome. I had seen several such victims. There was always more blood about the bodies than within them.
The faces of the victims were twisted in terror and pain, the final stroke designed to render the facial muscles in such a way that the death-scream held, even after death. I could picture Gern's face. It would be so very different than the cheerful man who served drinks to the villagers. I closed my eyes, but the image did not go away.
"Erik," I said carefully, "this is not me. I would never do that."
Erik nodded. "And yet here you are, covered in blood, with your sword used as the murder weapon."
I tried to stand, but found the shackles kept me sitting. I held out my hands, pleading.
"This is ridiculous, Erik," I said in a strained voice, my throat holding back tears. "Obviously, this is some Kronan's work."
Erik's eyebrows raised. "Really? A Kronan? Really? The entire army of Krona followed their Dark Lord to the mountains. There are none left."
"Obviously that is not true," I retorted. "Obviously, someone stayed behind. Maybe this is vengeance for my trespassing in the keep."
Erik nodded. He did not believe a word of it. I could see it in his eyes. "Obviously. So, a Kronan spy waited behind, and held his sword for all these years? Why not kill you at the keep, or during your travels? Why not kill you while you lay in a drunken stupor, last night?"
I shrugged. "I have no idea."
His head shook with disgust. "Neither do I, Jovan. The truth is, I think you were too drunk to wield the blade. Unfortunately, the sword is yours, and I know full well that you have the ability to do what was done to him. I can only assume that the time spent in that dammed keep has only improved on your knowledge of how those monsters did things. The village is already convinced of your guilt. Truth be told, they were convinced of your guilt years ago. This just happens to be something they can actually blame you for."
"This is absurd, Erik. Please!" I did not ask for anything in particular. What could I ask him for? The 'please' was a plea made in desperation. For my freedom? For my life?
"This is the reality of your choices, Jovan." He stood up straight, brushing the dust of the barrel of his pants. "This is what I warned you about. The keep has poisoned you, or sent something back with you. This is exactly what everyone warned you about when you started telling all of those stories about your visits. You have given tired, scared, superstitious people exactly what their fears most needed to fester."
I shook my head violently, as if to shake this reality loose, and find myself safe and free. It was not so. "I wish I had never visited that damned place!"
He nodded again. "I wish a lot of things, Jovan. And I wish this did not have to happen the way it is going to."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He did not answer, instead turning to leave. He took my sword in hand, and opened the door to the shack. Outside, a large crowd had gathered. Perhaps the entire village was present. They yelled and cursed at me. A fair-sized stone flew over Erik's shoulder and struck me on the forehead. I blinked through the blood, watching as the villagers howled at me with unfettered rage. Erik merely stood there at the door, his back to me.
After a moment, the crowd grew silent. Even without the screaming and cursing, the angry words that stung with their viciousness, I was burned by the hatred emanating from the mob. Erik nodded to them, and walked away.
Two men, whom I could not properly see through the blood which covered my vision, hurried in and grabbed me under the arms. They lifted me up and dragged me into the blinding midday sun. The screaming returned, and between the blood and the sun, I saw very little except the blur of movement, the waving of hands, and the burning hatred in the eyes of those closest to me. Those eyes seemed to pierce the cloud of brilliance and red that blinded me. I sensed that somewhere in the crowd, the eyes of that unknown Dark Lord were watching me, pleased with what they saw.
Hands swiped at me, striking me. I was battered back and forth, my body a slab of meat beaten mercilessly. Something, another rock perhaps, struck the left side of my face. I felt my head snap to the right, and the world began to spin. I felt myself go limp, but I did not pass out. The two men dragged me through the crowd, their grips painful in their malicious strength.
After perhaps a minute, though it certainly seemed an eternity, I found myself held before a large wooden stake, which had been set into the earthen fire pit at the center of the village square. I struggled, a sudden wave of fear drowning me in its smothering grip. I screamed, thrashed about, kicked as best I could, but to no avail. I felt my back explode in pain as it was thrust violently against the stake. Chains were wrapped about me, and my head was fastened to the stake with cord. The rope was tightened until it stretched and broke the skin. More blood dripped down onto my face.
The crowd formed a circle around me, and my two assailants backed away. Erik stepped out through the crowd. He set my sword, still covered in the dried blood of its last victim, on the cobblestones before me.
"We are going to leave you here for a few days, Jovan." His words were wooden, without feeling. He did not even look me in the eye as he said them. "Let the people all see what you have become. I want them to gaze upon one final reminder of what kind of evil Krona was."
"Why not just kill him?" someone in the crowd cried. It was a woman's voice. I knew it, and it crushed my soul to hear the words.
Jeannine stepped out from the crowd. I felt my breathing go ragged, panicked. Her eyes seemed to look right through me. I was not the man she once loved. I could see that well enough.
"Why not just kill him?" she repeated. Several cries from the crowd demanded that very thing.
Erik nodded. He picked up the sword, and brought it to her. "Go ahead, daughter. He was yours. Take his life, if you want it."
She hefted the sword in her hand. It was familiar to her. She knew its weight, its balance. She had held it many times before. Once, years ago, I had given her the most basic education in its use. It had ended as so many things had ended for us in those early days. We had ended up in the fields, in each others' arms. Not now, nor ever again.
