It was I who attacked too early, I who went after the wrong person. While my hands are no longer a full part of me, true, they are still weapons that I can wield, pointing them in the right direction. It is difficult but worthwhile, especially at times like this.
If my Master wanted this prince dead, that alone was an excellent reason to make sure he survived my ambush. The fact that he is a blood relative is a lesser reason, for I bear as little resemblance to him now as a mouse does to a hawk. But in time, perhaps, someone will defeat the Master, and make sure that I am freed from this unholy condition, this constant unlife. If this man can help that happen faster, then I will do everything I can to help from the other side.
Perhaps, someday, that will happen. But that thought is little comfort to me as I lie in the cold, stinking mud, water and dung filling my eyes and mouth, trying with all my might to make my hands move.
ALL IN THE EXECUTION by Tim Waggoner
Tim Waggoner’s most recent novels include the Godfire duology, Thieves of Blood, Pandora Drive, and Like Death. He’s published close to eighty short stories, some of them collected in All Too Surreal. His articles on writing have appeared in Writer’s Digest, Writers’ Journal, and other publications. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio. Visit him on the web at www.timwaggoner.com.
“SO…HOW WOULD you like to die?”
Sarsour often began with this question. He found it an effective way to put prisoners-especially the sort he dealt with-off-balance. But it didn’t work this time. The man sitting cross-legged on the straw pallet simply smiled and continued looking at Sarsour with ice-chip blue eyes. Sarsour found the mage’s gaze disconcerting, and he fought to keep the unease he felt from showing on his face.
You are Sarsour Burhan, he told himself. Lord High Executioner of the Citadel of Tabari. And regardless of who this mage might have been on the outside, he’s merely another prisoner now.
But Sarsour couldn’t bring himself to believe that last part. Kardel Duvessa was one of the most powerful mages in the kingdom of Qadira, and a necromancer in his own right. But even a mage as skilled as Kardel couldn’t escape from the confinement ring surrounding his straw pallet, nor could he cast spells while inside it. The ring was a complex enchantment created by the Master Warder herself, an array of mystic gems, arcane symbols, and intricately woven energy lattices, that when activated, could imprison an arch-demon, let alone a human mage.
Still, this was Kardel Duvessa-a powerful, dangerous, cold-blooded killer. Less than a month ago, Kardel had destroyed a monastery far to the north by calling down a rain of fiery sky-rock upon the structure. None of the forty-eight monks inside at the time survived. At his trial, when asked why he had committed such a horrendous crime, Kardel simply said, I never did like monks.
The man was in his late forties, wolfishly thin, and completely bereft of body hair. Not only was he bald, but he had no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no hair on his hands, fingers, or knuckles. The absence of hair gave Kardel an otherworldly look, which Sarsour supposed was the point. The man wore the same clothes he’d had on when the Citadel’s Enforcers had finally caught up with him: an expensive doublet fashioned of crimson silk, cerulean leggings, and highly polished black boots with gold buckles. The Duvessa family were well known for their rarified tastes.
Sarsour decided to try another tack. He sat down on the stone floor opposite Kardel so as to address the mage on an equal level. Mages of Kardel’s stature never responded well when looked down upon, whether literally or figuratively. Sarsour wasn’t worried that he might be putting himself at a disadvantage. Though there were no bars on Kardel’s room-and thus no barriers between the two mages-none were necessary. Not as long as Kardel remained within the Circle of Confinement and Sarsour remained outside it.
Not that Sarsour was especially intimidating either standing or sitting. He was a short, chubby man with greasy black hair and an overlong droopy black mustache. He was garbed in the black robe of his office, the silver fur trimming his collar, sleeves, and hem a symbol of his rank as a master of necromancy.
“So you are to be my murderer.” It was the first time Kardel had spoken since being captured, and Sarsour was surprised by how calm the man sounded, considering the topic under discussion.
“Executioner,” Sarsour corrected. “Yes, I am. It is my responsibility to carry out the sentence handed down by the Council of Hierarchs. And unfortunately for you, that sentence is death.” Sarsour always said unfortunately to be polite. The truth of the matter was he thought the prisoners he dealt with got precisely what they deserved, but he knew it wouldn’t be very professional to say so. “However, the Council-out of respect for your family name-has granted you the courtesy of a private death, so that your family can avoid the spectacle of a public execution. Also, in appreciation of all that your family has done for Quadira throughout the centuries, the Council has also given you the freedom to choose your specific means of death. I have a quite a variety to offer, everything from a simple Twilight Sleep spell to the Ecstatic Demise of Ten Thousand Blisses. Do you have any preferences or would you like me to make some suggestions?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kardel said in a bored voice. “You won’t be able to kill me.”
Sarsour clenched his jaw in irritation, but he managed to keep his tone even as he replied. “Many others before you have said similar words to me. And let me assure you, those words were among the last they ever spoke.”
A mocking smile played about Kardel’s lips. “You misunderstand. I do not mean that you lack the skill to execute me, either by physical means or mystical. I’m saying that in my case, you will be unable to slay me. No one can.”
Sarsour let his irritation get the better of him then. “I suppose you’re telling me that you ascended to godhood when no one was looking?”
Kardel laughed, but it was a laugh without mirth. “Not quite.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” Every mage that had been found guilty of a crime by the Council of Hierarchs pled innocent, and every one sentenced to death presented him or herself as too powerful to be destroyed. But in the end, they all took the final passage across the Bridge of Unspoken Sorrows, and entered the shadowy realm of Gadaran, land of the dead.
Sarsour decided to call Kardel’s bluff right away. “Since you say you cannot be slain, you won’t mind if I cast a spell of Swift Passage upon you.” This was one of the most powerful death-spells in existence, and few mages could counter it.
Kardel shrugged. “Do as you will.”
Sarsour concentrated and whispered words in the ancient thaumaturgic language of magekind. His spirit reached out to a dark dimension filled with necromantic energies and drew a portion of the fell power into himself. He then flung his hands toward Kardel, sending twin bursts of crackling ebon lightning toward the condemned mage. The shadow-energy coruscated across Kardel’s body for a moment before finally dissipating, leaving the man unharmed. He didn’t blink an eye, let alone keel over dead.
With increasing frustration, Sarsour tried several other deadly enchantments-Fire-Blood, Ice-Hold, and even Astral Severance-but none worked. Exasperated, he eventually summoned one of the Citadel’s guards and ordered the man to drew his sword and slay Kardel. The guard tried, but though his steel was sharp and penetrated Kardel’s body with ease, the wound produced no blood and healed the moment the blade was withdrawn. Kardel grinned, as if the piercing blow caused him no pain, and Sarsour dismissed the bemused guard.