Gareth grabbed the Hand by the arms and, dragging him out of the wizard’s presence, led the prisoner the few steps to the block.
“What you said about Magicka . . .” Gareth hissed the words in a low undertone, and, perhaps feeling the wizard’s eyes boring into his back, let the sentence stand unfinished, contenting himself with interrogating the assassin with a glance.
Hugh returned his gaze, his eyes black hollows in the flickering torchlit night. “Watch him,” he said.
Gareth nodded. -His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face unshaven. He had not slept since the death of his lord two nights previous. He wiped his hand across his sweat-rimed mouth; then the hand went to his belt. Hugh caught a flash of fire, reflecting off a sharp-edged blade.
“I can’t save you, Hugh,” Gareth mumbled. “They’d cut us both to ribbons. But I can end it for you quick. It’ll likely cost me my captaincy”-the knight glanced back darkly at the wizard- “but then, after what I’ve heard, it’s likely I’ve lost that anyhow. You’re right. I owe that much to her.”
He shoved the Hand around to stand in front of the block. The executioner solemnly removed his black robes-he disliked having them fouled with blood-and handed them to a young boy standing nearby. Highly elated, the child stuck out his tongue at an unfortunate friend who had been hovering near, hoping for the same honor.
Grasping the sword, Nick took two or three practice swings to limber up his arms and then indicated, with a nod of his head, that he was ready.
Gareth forced Hugh to his knees before the block. The knight stepped back, but not far, only two or three paces. His fingers flexed nervously around the knife concealed in the folds of his cape. His excuse was framing itself in his mind. When the blade sank into his neck, Hugh screamed out that it was you, Magicka, who killed my lord. I heard it clearly. The words of a dying man are, they say, always true. Of course, I know that he lied, but I feared the peasants-being a superstitious lot-would take it ill. I thought it best to cut his miserable life short. Magicka wouldn’t believe it. He’d know the truth. Ah, well, Gareth didn’t have that much left to live for anyway.
The executioner grabbed hold of Hugh’s hair, intending to position the prisoner’s head on the block. But Magicka, perhaps sensing an uneasiness in the crowd that not even the excitement of a forthcoming execution could quite banish, raised a restraining hand.
“Halt,” he cried. His robes swirling around him in the chill wind that had sprung up, the wizard walked toward the block. “Hugh the Hand,” said Magicka in a loud, stern voice, “I give you one more chance. Tell us-now that you are near the Realm of Death-have you anything to confess?”
Hugh raised his head. Perhaps the fear of approaching oblivion had finally struck him.
“Yes. I have something to confess.”
“I’m glad we understand each other,” said Magicka gently. The smile of triumph on the thin, aesthetic face was not lost on the watchful Gareth. “What is it you have to regret in leaving this life, my son?”
The Hand’s swollen mouth twisted. Straightening his shoulders, he looked at Magicka and said coolly, “That I never killed one of your kind, wizard.”
The crowd gasped in pleasurable horror. Three-Chop Nick chuckled beneath his hood. The longer this death dragged out, the better the wizard would reward it.
Magicka smiled with cool pity.
“May your soul rot like your body,” he said.
Casting Nick a look that plainly invited the executioner to have a good time, the wizard stepped back well out of the way, to keep the blood from spattering on his robes.
The executioner drew forth a black handkerchief and started to bind it around Hugh’s eyes.
“No!” the assassin shouted harshly. “I want to carry that face with me.”
“Get on with it!” Foam flecked the wizard’s lips.
Nick grabbed his hair, but Hugh shook the hand free. Voluntarily the prisoner laid his head down upon the bloodstained marble. His eyes were wide open, staring unblinkingly, accusingly at Magicka. The executioner reached down, took hold of the man’s short braid, and yanked it over to one side. Three-Chop liked a clear expanse of neck with which to work.
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