Dream of Me/Believe in Me

peaceful settlement of Vycoff. You slaughtered the men, women, and children dwelling there. You showed no mercy, not to oldest or youngest. No crime had been committed against you or yours. This was not payment for harm done, it was murder. For it, you will die.”
    Several of the men moaned, a few tried to hold out their hands in supplication but were restrained by their chains. One, the largest of them, looked at Cymbra. Weak as he was, in pain, afflicted with hunger and thirst, facing death, yet still his eyes widened at the sight of her. He stared, unable or unwilling to draw his gaze away. Slowly, he leered.
    “The Saxon bitch.”
    His voice was hoarse, rasping in the silence. Yet were the words unmistakable.
    Pandemonium erupted. Several men rushed at him and began to pummel him with their fists. He went down but even so, through the tumult of bodies, he continued to stare at Cymbra.
    She refused to respond; not by so much as a flicker would she acknowledge his presence. Dragon felt no such constraint. He caught his brother's glance, nodded, and wadded into what was rapidly becoming an enraged mob. Pulling men away, he yanked the offender back onto his feet.
    Wolf had not moved. He appeared utterly unaffected. “This one merely seeks to hasten his own death,” he told the crowd. “Do not oblige him.”
    Murmurs of understanding replaced shouts for blood. The jarl was wise, he saw what they had not. He was right, of course. Why should the scum die quickly? Let him suffer as was fitting.
    Cymbra held herself very still. She heard what was being said, she could hardly fail to do so. Yet her mind reeled from the implications. Not only death, then, but slow death. And she had insisted on being present.
    Instinctively, she sought the walls that had sheltered her for so many years, those she had built in her mind to protect herself from the too-violent world. But the walls were gone, vanished as though they had never been. There was nowhere to run, to hide, nowhere safe.
    Her heart beat frantically. For a sickening, dizzying moment, she felt herself utterly open and exposed to every pain, every cruelty, every sorrow. It would destroy her. Yet scarcely had she thought that than another sensation seized her. She felt strong arms close around her, drawing her near, cradling her. Arms she knew very, very well.
    Yet did Wolf remain unmoving in his seat, not touching her at all. Only looking at her. She met his gaze, saw the understanding there, and felt the terror ease from her like water flowing unhindered over smooth ground.
    He was her wall now, her shelter, her protection. His arms were strong and they would never let her go.
    She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation of being safer than she had ever been in her life. When she opened them again, she was calm, resolved, as ready as she could be for what was to come.
    And Wolf was still staring at her.
    He looked away, looked at the killers, looked at her again. Abruptly, he stood.
    “Olaf!”
    The old, one-eyed man Cymbra had become fond of on the voyage to Sciringesheal strode forward. He nodded to her and stood before his lord.
    “Fetch the ax.”
    The crowd shouted its approval. Eager hands fell upon the killers, dragging them out of the hall, into the open area beyond. Ulfrich was there, looking grim and somber. Brother Joseph stood beside him, his head bowed. Between them was Brita, her face very pale, her eyes dark smudges, yet clearly determined not to desert her mistress at such a time.
    Cymbra wanted to order her away, but her throat was too tight to emit any sound. She could only gather herself inward, praying she would not break, would not disgrace Wolf. She stared at the punishment post, remembering the thief who had been lashed and the horrible tortures Brother Chilton had told her about, those that would make a mere lashing seem as nothing. She braced herself for the wave of pain and terror that she knew would overwhelm her.
    Yet still did strong arms hold her and did she know herself to be safe.
    “These are not men,” Wolf said suddenly. He made a sweeping gesture of contempt in the direction of the killers. “They are but carrion feeders, no better than offal themselves.”
    He looked around at the crowd, which hung on his every word. “A man does not soil his hands with offal.”
    The crowd murmured agreement.
    Wolf glanced at Dragon and Olaf. Without warning, they dragged forward one of the men, thrust him down onto his knees,