Episode 11
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 want to watch anyone else be murdered, and it was the only way he could think of to stop the bloodshed.
“Prince,” he said. Mahkinson spun in a flash and slapped Gregory across the face. Hard. Gregory winced in pain; Mahkinson was wearing rings. It felt like a knuckleduster.
The death was halted, however. All eyes were again on Gregory.
“No speak!” Mahkinson said, and the rage was clear now. The man was only a few inches taller than Gregory, but he seemed to tower above him now. The hand came up, preparing another attack, and this time it was bunched into a fist.
“Bryce Hunner!” Gregory said, forcing himself to stand up and speak clearly through the pain. For the love of all the Gods, understand! Mahkinson stepped forward to hit Gregory again and stopped, his eyes going wide.
Recognition appeared in his eyes. Mahkinson stepped back and turned to face the Prince. Everything was silent once more. Mahkinson said something quick, and the executioner stepped back, lowering his blade. Mahkinson whirled on Gregory again, but the anger was gone…
No, not gone, just diminished behind the shock. But at least he understood what Gregory was trying to tell him.
“Bryce…” Mahkinson said, “Hunner…?”
Gregory nodded.
“Prince Bryce Hunner.”
Mahkinson spun and yelled a stream of words in his language. Cheers and screams filled the air from the raiding band. When the cheering died down, Mahkinson reached for Gregory and grabbed the slack of rope attached to his manacles and dragged him forward.
He searched around for bodies and eventually found the captain. Gregory saw the dead man’s face, and the look of pain he died with. There was nothing glorious about the man’s death. It was just… the end. This man told Gregory that he knew he was innocent yet would kill him anyway as an example.
Would the Captain be an example? Or even a footnote in history? The man wanted to kill Gregory, yet when he asked himself if he felt pity for the dead captain, the answer was yes.
Mahkinson reached down and began digging through the Captain’s pockets, letting go of the rope holding Gregory. There were no illusions about escape. Finally, Mahkinson stood up with a key in hand.
He motioned to Gregory, who held his hands up mechanically, and in a moment, the manacles were off. Gregory rubbed his wrists and felt a tingle of relief; despite everything, all the dead bodies, the sickening smell of blood mixed with urine and feces, he was relieved to have his wrists unbound. He felt as though he was free.
No, not free. The moment passed. He looked at his new captors and knew that he wasn’t in a better position. Mahkinson turned from Gregory and went to where Bryce was being held. The prince hadn’t moved. He looked confused and scared, nearly delirious. Gregory watched as they put his manacles on Bryce and two men led him away.
They disappeared into the forest. Exactly as Gregory had feared, they went East. The opposite direction he wanted to go. Gregory looked around at more of the dead bodies. Many of them were older than him, but not a lot.
Pain and fear were the most common expressions, and he couldn’t help but wonder what he would look like when he died. Would it be like this?
Would it be tonight?
He didn’t know. His eyes fixed on a location. He was looking at the ground about ten feet away, where one of the men who had captured him in the city lay dead. But, more importantly, he saw his hat lying on the ground next to him. Gregory walked slowly over to him and knelt next to him.
As predicted, the man also had Gregory’s money pouch and dagger, both attached to his hip. The emotional side of him told him to ignore the effects. This wasn’t his scene of carnage, and these weren’t his spoils, but the practical side of him objected. These were his. They might not be much, but they belonged to him.
He forced down his disgust and unclipped the pouch from the guard’s belt. He left the dagger, lest his new enemies thought he was planning to disobey them. He slipped the money pouch into his pocket, and on impulse, picked up the hat and slipped it over his head.
He stood up as Mahkinson came over, smiling now and at ease. It was as though he hadn’t just murdered some fifty people.
“Yours?” Mahkinson asked, gesturing at the hat.
Gregory nodded.
“Mine.”
“Prisoner,” he said, and Gregory thought Mahkinson was talking about him.
At least that would clarify their positions. Then he saw Mahkinson was pointing toward Bryce, not him.
After a second, Mahkinson motioned toward Gregory:
“Guest.”
Mahkinson wasn’t asking.
How could Gregory refuse?
