Sham is in Laven-lay, to be hanged publicly on the 42nd day of this red month, noon. I will do what I can if you get me word.
—note found tied to the leg of a raven shot by a traveling swamp faun minstrel
Two days later, Corry sat in his front room, sipping a late morning tea and listening to Laven-lay gearing up for the execution. The sound of hammers and axes had fallen silent yesterday evening, but the tramp of guards had increased. Cliff fauns passed him almost as often as wood fauns in the hall, ruffled and squinting from overnight travel. He’d heard that at least a hundred cats had come. The inns were full of out-of-town wood fauns and even the occasional black-furred swamp faun with long, tufted tail.
Corry had already decided to watch the execution from the window of the scriptorium, along with half the other clerks. It gave a good view of the parade ground and would not be accessible to the press of common shelts. It would also be a safe place if something went wrong. Corry did not intend to become hostage a second time.
Flags flew around the perimeter of the parade ground—Laven-lay’s leaf and buck and Danda-lay’s white flower on a purple field. A breeze had come up, and the ensigns snapped and rippled. Most days, Laven-lay’s parade ground was an open-air market, and many of the venders had come with whatever they thought appropriate for the occasion—food, mainly, and an assortment of wolf’s fur trinkets.
A trumpet sounded, and cliff faun soldiers poured in from the nearby streets. They wore shining metal breastplates and plumed helmets, their tunic skirts flashing white against purple capes. Music filled the air as they executed their drill maneuvers. They entertained the crowd for a quarter watch, and then a wood faun minstrel stood on the first tier of the gallows and recited part of a long epic poem about the bad old days when wolflings ate fauns, and valiant hunters risked everything to protect their tiny villages from the ravening dark. Afterward, he sang a well-loved wood faun anthem, and the whole crowd joined in.
When he left the platform, there was a long silence. Somewhere in the distance a gong sounded. All heads turned in the same direction, and Corry followed their gaze to the castle. A door opened, and a procession of guards filed out, carrying naked swords. The shelts and cats parted for them, and the armed fauns formed an isle all the way to the foot of the scaffold.
Another guard emerged, leading the prisoner. Sham was naked except for a metal collar around his neck. Even from this distance, Corry could see that his skin was purple and green with bruises. He walked with an odd, shuffling limp. Another guard came behind, holding a chain attached to Sham’s bound wrists. Behind the last guard walked Chance, purple cape ruffling in the breeze.
* * * *
Sham pressed his lips together to keep back a moan as the guard ascended the steps. His metal collar had an inner lining of spikes, so that the slightest tug bored into agonized flesh of his shoulders and neck. The guards had only to pull in opposite directions to bring the black spots before his eyes. Sham’s shattered paws were in their own private universe of pain. He’d lain in the trap half a day before Laylan found him, and the trapped foot was badly broken and swollen. But the other paw… He tried not to think about the layers of muscle and tendon that Chance’s sword had severed, but the healer in him kept returning methodically to the finer points of a paw’s construction. Idiotic, Sham told himself, to worry about a paw, when they’re about to have you up by the neck.
Climbing the steps was a hellish business. When he finally reached the first tier, the guards turned him to face Chance. The crowd had gone very quiet. “Sham Ausla,” he intoned, “I charge you, a wolfling, with trespassing in wood and cliff faun territory, of robbery and murder. Your sentenced is death by hanging.”
The guards led their prisoner to the forward edge of the lower platform and brought him to his knees with one light tug on the spiked collar. Then the missiles started from the crowd. It was mostly light stuff—rancid food and dung, mud and small, sharp rocks. But after a short while, the crowd began to get out of hand. Someone heaved a brick. It struck Sham on the head and dashed the collar against this neck. His vision swam. Next thing he knew, someone had set him on his feet and was urging him towards the steps leading to the upper platform.
* * * *
“They’re really going to do it the old fashioned way,” said one of the clerks. “Haven’t seen it done that way in years.”
Corry watched Chance unlimbering his sword in fascinated disgust. He’d read about this. The traditional way to hang a wolfling was to intentionally set the noose to strangle, then disembowel him before he stopped kicking. The stated purpose was to decrease the odor of the rotting corpse (which was generally left on display) by removing the intestines and accompanying fecal material. Mostly, though, it was for punishment.
* * * *
As the guards unfastened their leashes, Sham looked down on the sea of faces. The cheering roared in his ears. He caught sight of Laylan, still standing in front of the castle door. As Sham looked at him, their eyes met and held for a moment. Sham remembered their conversation in the cell. “And were you born a Raider?”
Perhaps I was, thought Sham.
A tug on his collar brought Sham back to reality as they positioned him over the trapdoor. They fitted the noose around his neck and finally removed the hateful collar. The cheering ended in an abrupt silence. Sham scanned the distant city wall. He had tried not to think about it before, but now his thoughts tumbled. Where are you, Fenrah? He heard Chance murmur, “Good-by, Sham,” and the floor gave way.