Executioner
Executioner
Death had come for him.
It was, he realized, far hazier than he had expected.
From the vantage point of his twenty-six years, Richard had always imagined death as something sharper. A clear road stretching toward the land of Sorrow and Death, the soul drifting across the sky in disembodied form.
Opinions on the matter varied, of course.
As a reasonably educated nobleman, Richard knew there was no authoritative account of the journey to the afterworld. That was precisely why the blurriness of his own death caught him so off guard.
But it made sense, now that he considered it. From what he understood, a soul had no senses.
No eyes, no nose, no ears, no skin. Nothing with which to perceive.
At least, that was the conclusion he had settled on.
He was still dwelling on that thought — that his imagination might be a lie, that he had died failing to protect his master's remains — when a droplet struck his forehead.
A soft tap.
The impact spread like ripples across water, consciousness flooding back into his body.
Richard clutched at his own throat, so raw and clenched it forced a cough from him, and spent a long moment hacking as though he might retch.
"Ngh... ah... urgh."
Had he been unconscious? He blinked, and the instant his vision focused he took in the scene before him.
The sky was a veil of drizzling rain. A faint green scent of grass mingled dizzyingly with the smell of wet earth.
At the center of it all, Richard found himself slumped against a tree trunk.
No one else was near.
"Ngh."
He turned his head to assess his surroundings, and his entire body screamed.
The shock and confusion of the pain were still washing over him when he moved his arm, and a sharp pang lanced from his elbow to the crown of his skull.
A stifled cry. He twisted and writhed against the tree until the spasm faded, and only then did his last memories surface.
His own body, batting aside a blade before crumpling into darkness. And in contrast to that collapsing form — Aslan, wreathed in thunder, launching himself after the fleeing Warrior Monk.
That had not been magic, or not exactly. It was something else: a technique refined to the point of divinity. Richard, who prided himself on a discerning eye, was certain of it. He rubbed absently at his throbbing arm.
"...Huh?"
And as he rubbed, he noticed: the spot where bone had shattered and pierced through skin was now closed.
That told him one thing.
Some new power had taken root inside him. A monstrous regeneration.
It must have manifested during the fight with the Warrior Monk, he decided, and the thought carried an unexpected pang of regret.
If he had gained this strength before his master died, he could have kept even those bastards from laying a finger on the remains.
"Ah."
The thought struck and shattered his composure. He lurched upright — and pitched forward flat on his face.
His cheek stung from the impact, but desperation drove him to crawl. He had to find his master's body.
He had crawled perhaps two paces when a hand seized him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back beneath the tree.
Deposited where he had started, he looked up into the face of a red-scaled Dragon-kin.
"Was going to ask if you were all right," the Dragon-kin said. "Don't think I need to."
The creature was wrapped in something like a heavy fur cloak and regarded Richard with a long, unreadable look before holding out a hand.
Dried rations. Meat and vegetables pounded together and hardened into portable blocks.
Richard took them. The hunger roaring through him gave him no choice. He stuffed the rations into his mouth the moment they touched his fingers.
"That hungry, are we? Well, considering what you've been through, I'd say it's warranted."
The Dragon-kin chuckled — Tiyamal. Richard finished wolfing down the rations and, in the same breath, let the first thing that surfaced escape his lips.
"My master..."
The name caught in his throat. Tiyamal nodded. Thanks to that, Richard did not have to say it.
"We're burying him now."
Relief. Richard let out a shaky breath and managed a sad, crooked smile. Tiyamal rubbed his jaw.
"Well, for my part, burning's more the custom where I'm from. But that'd mean knowing where the old man's homeland was. You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"
They'd likely finished the burial by now. Richard clasped his hands together and managed a bitter smile.
"My master... never spoke of his homeland. Whenever I asked, he only said he considered this place his home."
"That so."
Then, if anything, that was a mercy. If the old man had considered this land his home, a Northern-style burial was appropriate.
Richard fell silent, and Tiyamal studied the young man from the corner of his eye.
Not long before, the youth's body had been a ruin.
Blood flooding his lungs, breath ragged and wet, limbs broken, an ankle crushed — Richard would not have surprised anyone by dying.
The one who had saved him from the brink was a member of their party.
It was a little awkward to spill all the details right now, but at least that much ought to be said.
Tiyamal shrugged.
"I'll tell you now: you were on death's door. Ereta — the pale one — she's the reason you're breathing."
"The pale... one?"
"You know. Pale, always grinning that loopy grin. Big axe on her back..."
"Are you talking about me?"
"That kind of talk is better said when I'm standing right here," the voice continued, drifting over. Aslan and Ereta approached.
The two of them had earth smeared on their hands and cheeks, and they brushed wet hair from their faces as they drew near.
Richard looked at them and bowed his head, expression darkening. Because of the grotesque sword strapped across Aslan's back.
The Executioner. The moment he saw that blade, the fact of his master's death crashed over him anew.
The words he had meant to speak were simple.
He was sorry.
He had failed to protect his master.
He had become an obstacle to their grand designs.
That was the apology he had prepared.
"I'm sorry, Richard."
The apology came from the other direction first. It closed Richard's throat. He looked up, dazed.
A man stood there. A man with a sword on his back that looked as though it had been hammered out of an anvil.
He wore a sorrowful smile, and compared to the cold blankness his face had shown before, this expression looked more real.
Weariness and grief ran deep across that face. Richard stared at it, mute, then forced his mouth open.
"What is... no, why..."
He couldn't find the right words. He fumbled.
He was the one who ought to be apologizing, and having the words stolen from him left him speechless.
Whether Aslan noticed or not, those teal eyes flicked briefly behind him as if chasing a thought, then returned to Richard.
"I don't really know. But... it feels like it's my fault."
Richard blinked at that, and Aslan let out a long breath.
"If I hadn't given Master Itar the medicine, would he still be alive? Maybe I... no, I knew death was coming. It's just... I didn't expect this."
The words spilled out unbidden. Richard understood their meaning only a beat later.
Itar had been torn into four pieces.
His arm wrenched off, his torso split open, his head ripped away.
Richard remembered gathering those grisly remnants, fitting them together as best he could, and trudging into the forest.
And remembering the scene, his face grew as somber as Aslan's.
The silence scattered and drifted. Beside them, Tiyamal shot Ereta an uncomfortable look.
"Honestly."
A soft, coaxing whisper. The youth and the man both lifted their heads. Ereta was stroking Aslan's back.
"Aslan, blaming yourself would be easier, I know. But that won't solve a thing. And more to the point — is any of this really your fault?"
Firm words. Aslan made a small, startled sound, and Ereta smiled.
"Think about it: what could possibly be your fault here? The guilty ones are the Executioner who poisoned Itar and the Warrior Monks who came to kill him."
And besides, she continued, meeting Aslan's vacant stare with a pleased expression and pinching his cheek.
"Ereta...?"
"Mm. Anyway, it's not your fault. Yes, Itar is dead. But he wasn't offered. His head was intact. You said yourself the mutilation happened after death. So... stop moping and go comfort the child."
The child. Aslan and Tiyamal both turned instinctively to look at the "child" in question. Richard echoed the word, expression blank.
"Child...?"
"Yes. Child."
Richard blinked vacantly, then shook his head.
Ereta looked to be around his own age. This wasn't a word he should be hearing from her.
"No, I am not a child. I am..."
"Pfft."
"No, I'm not..."
"Anyone who puts on a face like that, begging to be comforted, is a child. Not an adult."
The judgment was swift and absolute. Richard's expression twisted with indignation, but Ereta only ran slender fingers down Aslan's spine.
"I've done my part. I healed him. The rest is yours, Aslan. Comfort the child."
"I am grateful for the healing, but... I am not a child. I have undergone my coming-of-age ceremony. I'm even engaged..."
"Aslan."
Ereta smothered Richard's protests simply by speaking Aslan's name. She stepped back, smiling faintly.
Aslan stared at that smile for a second, then scratched his cheek.
"I'm not much good at saying the right thing. I'm not sure I can comfort anyone. But I can manage a few words. First off... do you know why I came here?"
The question drew an answer from Richard before he could think.
"...Ah. To bring my master back..."
"Right. More precisely, to recruit Master Itar — and to collect you along the way. Itar's disciple. The son of Duke Hilsinger."
A strange expression crossed Richard's face.
Refusing outright and throwing a tantrum about not going back was no longer an option. He had already learned, in the course of facing himself, just how petulant that would be.
More to the point — could he even resist?
He'd be lucky not to be dragged along after such a crushing defeat.
His expression shifted for that reason, and Aslan smiled slightly. He had mistaken that strange look for refusal.
"If that's how you feel... consider whether Master Itar would have wanted you to stay here."
Richard had never planned to refuse in the first place, but he hunched his shoulders anyway.
He lifted his head without thinking. Their eyes met.
Aslan was smiling kindly.
A smile different from Itar's gentleness — something wearier threaded through it.
"Master Itar supported what I'm trying to do. If he were here, I think he'd want you to help me. Though, of course... he'd also say your will matters most."
Richard found himself nodding. That was exactly what his master would have said.
"And that probably makes you wonder: if I knew that, why did I only come looking for you now? The answer is, that's exactly why I came late. Because I believed a man like Master Itar would join me regardless."
An answer to a question Richard hadn't asked. He was still struggling for words when Aslan smiled again — a smile that seemed to hold some private certainty of victory.
It wasn't premature.
From the moment the first words left Aslan's mouth, Richard would have followed, if only from a sense of debt.
So rather than drag it out, Richard simply let himself be carried along. He yielded.
"I don't know if I'll be any help. I lost. I couldn't even protect my own master. I'm..."
"No. You didn't lose."
Seeing Richard's surrender for what it was, Aslan denied the claim flatly and took hold of the young man's hand.
The pull brought him to his feet. Rain drummed against his shoulders.
A dull ache spread through the chill. For the first time, Richard felt something like reality bleeding back into him.
"You're still standing here."
A palm brushed the rain from his shoulder. Richard's expression grew complicated. Aslan looked him straight in the eye.
"So long as a man refuses to accept defeat, he never truly loses."
An inscrutable statement. Richard's face went slack, and Aslan bit back a smile and shrugged.
"At least, that's how I see it. Anyway... I need you."
If Rumel had been listening, she would have grumbled that the words sounded suspiciously like what Aslan had once said to her. Aslan added,
"Duke Hilsinger is my ally. Part of the alliance my plans require, to be specific. And since you're the heir, I need help from both you and your father. I'd like you to lend a hand."
"Lend a hand... how?"
"Show our faces and do a little persuading," Tiyamal spoke up.
Aslan nodded toward the Dragon-kin in confirmation.
"Besides," Aslan added, "didn't you mention a fiancée? Might be a good time to go see her face, don't you think?"
Up to that moment, Richard had looked dazed but slowly persuadable. At the mention of his fiancée, his expression blanched.
"Ah, fian... cée?"
And behind the pallor, something else. Aslan caught a flicker of what looked like fear and frowned, but Richard only bit his lip.
A thick coat of hesitation settled over him, and he forced a smile.
"Yes, yes... let's do that. A-all right."
The vivid unease came free of charge.
Aslan would not learn the reason for it until after they had reached the city of Kardi, in the Duchy of Hilsinger.