The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

the lights of the castle. Keep going. One last chance to complete the lunacy he has embarked on, and he is going to take it. No matter what.
    The only question in his mind is this: Will we be too late?

    Simon
    Sobbing like the coward he knew he was, and struggling to remain upright, Simon was dragged out of the private rooms by the guards and then through a side door into the courtyard. The news of his capture and its inevitable conclusion must already have reached the nearby villages as he could see groups of women and children, and a few of the older men not in the field today, laughing with the soldiers. When they saw him, they shouted out, and from somewhere mud and stones were thrown. One pebble whistled past Simon’s ear, while another found its mark on his arm.
    As more stones were thrown, the soldiers cursed and their comrades shouted at the crowd, who cowered back from their swords and gestures. From the other side of the courtyard, the formal door was opened and through it came Ralph and Gelahn, still dressed in their robes of office, their faces fixed and calm. The crowd fell silent, though whether at the sight of their lord or the presence of the greatest of the mind-executioners Simon couldn’t tell.
    Ralph held up one hand and the drums were silenced.
    “My people,” he said. “Today is a day of rejoicing. An evil man has been found amongst us and is to be punished. I myself will hang him in the place of death, and then there will be an end to the suffering we have been forced to endure. Afterwards there will be feasting and all will be welcomed here. Both citizens and soldiers. My people together in safety.”
    A roar of approval met this announcement, and then Simon was pushed forward, still flanked by the guards, towards the pathway out of the courtyard. He fell to his knees to try and delay the onward progression, but it was no use. The guards picked him up and dragged him through the crowd.
    “Please,” he begged the people, grasping at whatever his fingers could reach or cling to. Legs, sandals, the edges of gowns, a staff. “ Please , don’t let them kill me. Don’t let me die. Have mercy, I beg you.”
    The only answer was laughter and fierce shoving as the villagers tore at his clothing, ripping the outer garment and belt away and snatching at the chain he wore around his neck. Simon struggled against them, but it was no use. Their greed and blood lust was stronger.
    Halfway between the outer wall of the castle and the place of death, visible now in the trees, he felt a warm stream of piss flowing down his legs and through the thin cotton of his under-robe, his only remaining garment. A woman laughed and pointed, and then a small pebble hit Simon on the neck. Then another, and another, larger now. The laughter rose wildly and through it Simon could discern voices and hatred: Coward! Mind-executioner! Devil! Look at how you piss yourself now, murderer!
    Stumbling and still begging for mercy, he found himself at the Hanging Square. The guards held him between them, as he was sagging and would have otherwise fallen. They tied his hands roughly behind him. A small boy he didn’t recognise ran for a stool and he was forced to stand on it underneath the waiting rope. Tears were running unchecked down Simon’s face, and he couldn’t stop trembling. At the same time, he prayed for the boy he knew.
    In front, he could see Ralph striding through the crowd and the soldiers as if they were but water. Behind him, the dark shape of the mind-executioner followed.
    Two rapid heartbeats later, Lord Tregannon stood before Simon, his black hair lifted by the summer breeze.
    As Lord Tregannon looped the rope around Simon’s neck, he could smell the herbs and wine from the Lammas Master’s breath. And the faint trace of wintergreen. The dreaming potion. Simon dared to glance at him once, but those grey eyes flickered across his face and didn’t stay. Simon’s legs were still shaking and soaked with sweat.
    “Please, Ralph,” he whispered. “Don’t let them kill me. I don’t want to die. Not yet. I’m not ready. Please.”
    Ralph’s only answer was to pull the rope tighter so Simon’s throat burned and he struggled for breath.
    Heart thudding in his chest, he tried to speak again, to beg Ralph, anyone , for mercy once more, but the rope was too tight and the only noise the scribe could make at all was a low moan. Somebody laughed, and then a spattering of saliva landed on his cheek.
    “