The Dark Citadel

When he finally fell into step beside Bryce, he stared at the forest in front of him and tried to keep his voice low.

Gregory was modestly relieved the next morning when it became clear that his new captors were actually intending for him to be treated as a guest, though one lacking total freedom. They didn’t force him to travel with them, but they also didn’t offer him a chance to leave.

He couldn’t help but blink and take a deep breath. Mahkinson turned, eyes still on Gregory, and waved a hand at the executioner. The sword was raised once more. Gregory knew that what he was likely getting himself killed but didn’t give himself time to make a rational decision.

He didn’t cut the rope off Gregory’s hands, though, keeping him bound, and there was still about six feet of slack dragging from his wrists to the ground, but he wasn’t about to complain.  The man patted himself on the chest.

He started moving that direction, crouched, and reached for the arrow.  He almost had it, only inches away, and then his hands stopped moving.  He was at the end of his rope.

When he first heard the sound, he passed it off as wind rustling through the trees. It was like a soft whooshing in the air above him, and he only asserted importance to it when he heard cries from off the right side of camp.

The captain spoke again: “If it is any consolation, the wound to your stomach missed all of your vital organs and did minor damage. You should recover fully within a few days,” the captain said. “You should be fully healed by the time of your execution.”

Gregory awoke tied down on a wooden surface, unable to move. Waves of agony rippled through his body, and it felt as though someone had jammed a hot poker into his stomach. His memory started flooding back, and he realized how close to the truth that was.

They went outside, where he saw two soldiers waiting, and then on down the street. His legs felt like rubber, and it was all he could do to stay calm.