Andrew Baker

Headsman's Diaries | old warrants & new deals

The crow's beady eyes were black. Whatever light escaped the mauve clouds over their heads gave them a strange glint, and it matched the glassy look the corpse's eyes had. Mayhap, the color is a tad different, Andrew thought sawing the stiff arm off at the shoulder joint. The blade splintering the bone and the cold half-rotted ligament, after going through the fully-rotted flesh.

The bird croaked once angrily, when he pulled the limb off and tossed it inside the half-hull open wagon. The rest of the frozen corpse was buried under hard snow, broken branches, and other mangled corpses. They had unloaded them during the night, after picking up those diseased from the narrow streets between the camps. Per the boards, these people had perished from disease, be it fever, cholera, or any flavor of the day, but Andrew thought most of them looked malnourished, frost-bitten from sleeping outside and three of them had been outright murdered.

"You need the long prier?" Dexter asked, face hidden behind the pointy beak of the plague mask, and Andrew, who had a similar mask on, stood up and waved him away.

"No point in trying to unstuck the rest. The ground sunk, all those lower-placed bodies turned into a hardened paste," he told his son and Dexter cursed a little disappointed.

"It's a good haul," Andrew reminded him and walked past him to climb on the wagon's driver's couch. "Hop up. We stop by the sergeant to make the count, take the receipt and then we'll burn them in the field away from the market."

"Four coppers for a body, is such a rip off," Dexter grunted climbing on the seat next to him. "Can I drive?"

"Go ahead," Andrew gave him the reins and pushed his hurting back against the trunk to rest it. Dexter would drive them through the market stalls narrow streets, stop at the second camp to speak with the sanitation sergeant and then head to the northwest in order to unload their cargo into the burning pit. It would be followed with another stop at the sergeant's post and then another slog back through the market in order to reach their lodgings at Slager's tavern. It wasn't the worst room Andrew had ever slept in, but it was up there.

Mayhap top three.

Aye.

"The Viscount fired two shots in the morning," Dexter said, with Andrew's eyes roaming the packed with all manner of people muddy streets. Desperate, angry and mostly drunk. Either starving or puking their guts out. Always in a hurry, or barely able to walk. All shades of humanity pressed together so tight, the foul air wasn't reaching anyone's lungs.

And when it did, could make you sick.

Death was having a feast.

"Sneaked the engines near under the cover of dawn's mist," Andrew continued. Having just turned eighteen, living near a siege seemed like a big deal to him. "One shot exploded on a parapet next to a Khanate guard and he fell from the walls in his panic. Everyone laughed at that."

Then Pourem had killed twelve civilians one after the other and kicked their bleeding corpses off of the walls. This had soured the attackers' mood aplenty and the gloomy weather that followed offered little relief.

"Curse you, vile motherfuckers!" Someone yelled as they passed by a small group of civilians. "Fucking knackers! Death and rot upon yer whole lineage, you bloody bastards!"

"Keep going," Andrew ordered his son, as another wagon full of corpses came after theirs, driven by the brothers Garrick & Frank Weele and was about to gather the ire of the crowd. Of course, the Weele brothers were better as Knackers —with three wagons working the settlement— while Andrew was doing it as a side job.

It was still better, more palatable, to tell people you were in the corpse-disposing business.

All them curses thrown at him had gradually taken their toll, with Andrew losing a sister, a boy and his wife within five years. Once people knew who you were, it was best to move, or at the very least avoid to overstay your welcome.

Such as it was.

When Dexter frequently asked him why he didn't venture to another kingdom, Andrew assured him that they would at some point, when it was time for him to retire. Put all that saved coin into a nice big house, but do it in a city where nobody knew what he had done for a living.

He would have thrown this dream away, just for another glance at his late wife and little boy. Since that wasn't possible Andrew had settled with retiring in a better place. Somewhere warm and with a lot of sun, like the Lorian Coast. Born in the northern port of Atri, on the Cliffson Cay Isle, the bigger of the Free Isles of the Shallow Sea, Andrew had seen enough snow and icy winters in his life and longed for something different.

Then again, a scalding hot summer might change yer mind after a season or two, he scolded himself and turned to face Dexter's sober face. Getting cursed and spat upon, wasn't easy for the young man, who tried to come into his own and lately even socialize with girls. Not in this job, he won't, Andrew thought.

"What did you say, boy?" He rustled and Dexter crooked his mouth as they came upon the military camp's sentries.

"I asked, why didn't we return to Atri in all these years?" Dexter asked.

"Last time I was there, yer aunt fell sick and then yer mother got that boil on her neck," Andrew grunted removing the sinister-looking plague mask to greet the freaked-out young sentry. "Hop up on the wagon bed and count them corpses," he told the reluctant soldier. "I'll take a quarter of the price for all unattached body-parts, else I'll unload them right at yer gates. Right? That's a good lad, dig in there and count them proper. Ah, and send for sergeant whatchamacallit, the bald drunk. I ain't got all day."

"Fucking hell," the Issir sentry cursed with a grimace of disgust and made the sign of Uher to protect himself from evil. Which was funny since Andrew was spreading naught of the evil around these parts, but it was the soldiers doing it and the Lords commanding them.

"I miss the old house," Dexter murmured while the soldier moved the corpses about behind them, holding a cloth over his mouth and trying not to puke on the merchandise.

"As I said," Andrew rustled, shifting his arse on the wooden couch, his eyes on the two mules dragging the wagon moving their tails back and forth. "Last time we've been there, I got plucked out of yer aunt's funeral to do a job in Bayspell. Only it wasn't in the city, but across it, on that miserable place Colant's Refuge. Aye. Them bastards didn't even pay the full fee and I'm still ain't sure that man was guilty for the crime they had him nailed for. Thing is, if our people get the wrong idea about you on the isles, you are walking a fine line son."

"You think he wasn't guilty?" Dexter queried, frowning upon hearing the sentry's desperate vomiting sounds coming from the wagon's bed.

What was the name? Copper something.

Copeland.

Aye. Number forty three.

Eh.

"Didn't say that," Andrew rustled and stooped to spit down afore putting his plague mask back on. "Everyone is guilty for something."

Four hours later

Slager's Affordable Huts & Cold water bathrooms (behind the tavern)

His beefy arms had turned numb inside the bath barrel. The water frosty, as if it was naught but gathered snow left to melt on its own inside a bucket during the day, and the days had been cold as fuck lately.

"Ah," Andrew grunted and heaved with both numb arms to get himself out of the barrel, grabbing at its edges. Water splashed out, and made a proper mess on the small cabin's floorboards, but there was half-a-mess there to begin with, so it made little difference.

He walked to the narrow bed, adjoined with Dexter's, and grabbed his pants. He put them on and sat on the bed to wear his leather boots. Andrew stared at the burning fire on the small stone fireplace, this was the luxury cabin per Slager's words though in reality it only had the fireplace instead of a brazier and about a square meter more space, and then frowned hearing horses outside the door. Their wagon, mules and horses were in the stables to rest and feed for the coming night, and the sound of the arriving horses was the nervous sort, as if they had hurried through the streets or carried a heavy load around.

A man is heavy either in lard, or armour.

Andrew stood up and recognized Dexter's voice conversing with someone coming from outside. He walked to the table and grabbed the arming sword he had left right next to the double in size greatsword, to wait its turn for a session of good sharpening with the whetstone. The latter done each day more out of habit than necessity. The army didn't have need of expensive executioners to deal with its problems as it had plenty of killers of its own.

The door cracked open and Dexter popped inside.

"Who is it, boy?" Andrew queried, loud enough for the men outside to hear him.

"Crows," Dexter replied, and grimaced. "Pretty old Crows."

"Hmm," Andrew murmured and grabbing a shirt to put on, stepped out to the porch.

Andrew stepped outside the cabin, but kept himself on the wooden step at the entrance not to foul his boots in the mud. He had the naked blade resting at the side of his leg, the tip touching his right boot.

"Knew it," the decently aged, but easily recognizable, Beren Kuik, grunted and spat down, not to mess up his expensive plate and garbs. Plenty of good pieces added to the sturdy armour, since the last time Andrew had last seen him. On the other hand, Janus Boult was just as he remembered him, wrinkled face and constipated expression unchanged —mayhap a tad older, but you couldn't tell for sure with Janus, since he'd been an old bastard for as long as Andrew knew him. As for that cunning jackal, Ward Neve… well, Ward looked like yesterday's shit. "Yer still as tall as Death himself, Baker," Ruud's Vulture grunted, crooking his mouth. "Took me a minute to track yer arse down, but I knew ye like luxuries, so it was either Slager's or Tibbe's place."

"Tibbe runs a brothel," Andrew pointed out with a gravelly rustle.

"Ayup, Neve knows the venue better," Kuik retorted with a glance at the scowled and rather sickly-looking man-at-arms. "Caught something nasty there."

Better keep his distance then.

"I ain't a dottore Beren," Andrew grunted. "Lest ye boys are fixin' for a quick way out."

"Ha!" Janus Boult guffawed, and started coughing, his hand pulling at the reins and turning the horse about. "Fucking… hells!" The ancient warrior croaked, trying to breathe and barely managing it. "Get yer dirty claws off of me, ye sick fool! I need… no extra germs in my system!" Janus cursed Ward that attempted to help him.

"So, is this a social visit?" Andrew asked, after they watched the two older warriors bickering for half-a-minute.

"You still get those?" Kuik asked, making an attempt at a jest, Andrew didn't reciprocate at all, which forced the younger of the three Issir men-at-arms to add. "You won yerself a bounty, Baker."

"I did?" Andrew asked, tapping the blade on his boot. "When was that, Beren?"

"Yesterday," Beren Kuik replied with a scowl. "It's Sir Beren, by the way. Got my ring, land and all."

"There's no way Lord Ruud properly knighted you, even in his last will. Did you blackmail his old arse?" Andrew taunted still nervous, since he didn't trust them. It wouldn't be much of a surprise if they had come here to cut him down for whatever reason.

"The Queen did," Beren replied with a grimace of annoyance.

"A bounty."

"Ayup. A hundred and seventy gold Eagles."

"Pretty decent chunk of change, eh? Think is, I read the boards, and this sum didn't pop out of the blasted page."

Beren crooked his mouth and stooped over the horse's head. "It's an old warrant. Might even be bigger the amount, what with all the inflation since Theun's time."

Andrew narrowed his eyes.

"Who is it?"

Beren stood back on the saddle and looked at the Headsman soberly.

"Sonny Lindberg."

'You are five men short, and a day late,' Sonny Lindberg told him in that inn outside Como, a good ten years ago. His lieutenants in the Crimson Band sitting to the other two occupied tables. The sober Kobus Bakema and his younger brother Toft on the right one, Asmus talking with Rinus Boer and the archer Naut Clos on the left. All men having a price of fifty gold eagles on their heads, but for Sonny who had thrice that amount, because he had hanged Theun's herald near Boar Horn's Bridge back in 174. 'The Magister signed my release. The King is dead.'

'I ain't a bounty hunter, Lindberg,' Andrew rustled, glancing at the door above his shoulder.

'Sure ye are, when it's convenient,' Sonny retorted and rubbed his chin with a hand. 'Now it isn't, so you aren't as eager. If it's any consolation, even Lear Hik refused to take the bounty. You know why?'

'You travel with a lot of armed scum?'

Sonny Lindberg raised his arm to stop the brigands from rushing him. 'I ain't a criminal, Baker. The people know it, which is why they support us.'

'You kill and plunder for a cause,' Andrew taunted and the brigand leader nodded not taking offense.

'Aye. I have a clear fucking conscience and you just had a second boy, I'm told. Brought yer woman to town with you. Eh, don't get all tense up, now. Let me finish. As I said, ye get to walk away unharmed and return to yer family this time. Call it a gift for the missus from me. Kobus right there wants the same more than you,' Sonny continued pursing his mouth. 'But he can't. He has a family no more.'

-

"Sonny Lindberg was pardoned by King Antoon," Andrew grunted and Beren Kuik shrugged his shoulders as if it wasn't important.

Although it sort of was…

"He relapsed. Come to the Queen's camp to pick him up," the Issir knight said. "We are setting up a small platform on the north side of Reinut's Bridge with a decent view of the city's walls. You'll bring him there, set him up proper and do your thing. People might gather, but don't expect much of crowd this early in the morning, nor should you wait for one," Beren puffed out and shifted his weight on the saddle. "Listen, the queen will be there, De Braal and other dignitaries, so try to do a decent job."

"Do I let him speak?" Andrew asked, knowing he couldn't refuse a job from the Queen to be. Even if half the kingdom would praise him for it. Politics didn't mix up well with his brand of trade and just made a risky job, even more dangerous.

"Everything is prearranged," Beren assured him and clicked his tongue to get his horse turning.

"What about the Crimson Band?" Andrew asked and Beren pulled at the reins to give him a strange look.

"Don't be late, Baker," Beren warned after a tensed moment. "We'll take care of the rest."

"You'll take the horses and head for Granlake," Andrew ordered his son after he returned inside their rented cabin.

"Why? I want to help you out," Dexter protested. "That's a big—" Andrew had reached to grab the young man by the collar in order to cut him off.

"You'll go to the lake, rent a boat from Lundgren and wait for me," Andrew repeated and reached inside his travel bag for a stack of papers. "These are the bank numbers. All the coin I have gathered is in there. Any Bank's venue will pay to the holder. If I'm not there in two days max, you get in that boat and head to Visserhaven. Not across the lake, hear me out. Do not enter the Crows lands. Head for Riverdor first and then Regia," Andrew warned his worried son.

"What spooked you?" Dexter protested, when Andrew went to pick up his weapons and wear his overcoat. He folded the executioner's hood into his satchel, and breathed out once, afore turning around to stare in the young man's face.

"They don't need me to kill Sonny Lindberg. They have killers aplenty," Andrew explained. "This a message, and I'm the one to amplify it, because when Andrew Baker is present people remember it. Talk about it and these kind of news travel far."

"What is the message?" Dexter asked him and Andrew frowned trying to figure out why would anyone prefer a public execution during a siege, a famine and a plague.

Then he realized that perhaps the answer wasn't as complicated or really mattered.

"Those it is intended for shall know," he told his worried son.

Late night of the 18th

The Queen's Camp

"Who goes there?" The sentry asked, coming out of the small watchtower to behold the lanky, black-dressed figure with the giant sword strapped on his back, driving the open wagon.

"Andrew Baker," he told the Issir and the soldier lowered his spear. "I'm expected."

"Sergeant?" The soldier yelled over his shoulder towards the badly-lit camp entrance. "There's a dude with a big blade out here!"

"What?" The sergeant barked and burst out of the small office at the base of the watchtower. "How big? Ah! Goddess' tits! Ehem… are you Baker, then?"

"Aye," Andrew grunted.

"Fucking hell! Get in. Wait! What's in the wagon?" The nervous sergeant asked, walking near the wagon to check it out, but pausing with a grimace of disgust. "Good grief! The stench! What in the all-gods are ye carrying back there? Corpses?"

"Aye," Andrew replied and the sergeant blinked in shock, then taking a step back pursed his mouth tightly and gestured with his hand.

"Get on with it then. Move up ahead. You'll wait an hour for the officer to release the prisoner to yer care. Don't lose the prisoner until you leave the premises!" Andrew nodded and snapped the reins to get the wagon going through the gates, with the frowned sergeant watching him pass by holding his breath. The moment he was far enough, Andrew heard him order in a croaking voice.

"Fill that unused latrine bucket with fresh water Hermen and bring it here posthaste! Need to wash my hands and face gods damn it! Fucking hell… I breathed in a proper mouthful, fer crying out loud!" The distressed sergeant ordered the sentry. "Ah, don't forget the plaguing ointment!"

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Forty minutes later

An hour before dawn

"It's time Sonny," the Issir Officer said. "The Headsman is here."

Andrew moved from the side of Gus —the other mule he called Gasper— where he had waited for the officer to wake up and moved about his numb limbs to kick-start the circulation. The night hadn't brought any fresh snow, but it was bitterly cold, with a good breeze sweeping over the camp from the river.

"You are in a hurry to get rid of me, Stan?" Lindberg's familiar voice was heard before he appeared at the door, under the officer's torch light.

"No, I'm not, Sonny," Officer Stan replied politely.

"Ah, it's all good. See to survive the war Stan. Yeah. I'm going out. It's a cold morning this," Lindberg commented in a friendly manner and walked out. He paused to perceive Andrew's taller frame and then shook his head in recognition. "That my ride?" The brigand leader asked as he strolled towards the open wagon with his hands locked in chains.

"Best thing I could find in such a short notice," Andrew retorted and Sonny let out a hoarse chuckle. "Sort of hoped you wouldn't notice."

"Gods damn you, Baker. You're still killing people? I thought you retired, fucking bastard," Sonny said in a semi-jesting manner.

"I thought the same about you, Sonny," Andrew retorted.

"Yep. That's fair, I reckon. Can I sit at the front? It's probably my last ride," Sonny asked, sobering up.

"Aye, it is. But I'll give you a lift," Andrew replied and he did that, which helped break the awkwardness of the moment. Most will hate you in their final moments. Some might make it a point to force all their misery or resentment on your person. Others might stand indifferent in resignation and certain few won't make a big deal out of it or even be cordial to a point.

Usually, those were experienced with the process or had just lived under the threat of the headsman's blade for far longer.

Mayhap, it's just a matter of character and one's spirit afore the last walk.

Nobody could accuse Sonny Lindberg he lacked the latter.

"So how's the wife and the boys?" Sonny asked him after they exited the camp, a small escort of four riders following after the slow-moving wagon, now heading towards Reinut's Bridge. "Reckoned you'd have them wit you like afore."

"Elsa died of the boils," Andrew replied with a hoarse rustle, feeling his insides compress at the memory. "And I lost Kevin some months after."

"Ah. Sorry to hear it. Was it the same fever?"

"He fell inside a well." Andrew paused to gather his wits. "He wasn't right in the head, after Elsa died."

"Uher's Light bless and guide them," Sonny said and stood back next to Andrew to watch the empty road for a while. "What of the bigger one?"

"You sure found a heavy topic to discuss," Andrew grunted with a glare at the condemned criminal.

"Heavy for you. I'm about to die, all other topics are more light to discuss for me," Sonny admitted and puffed out. He'd fresh injuries on his face and hand, but it wasn't from torture.

"How did they capture you?" Andrew queried.

"Big Butcher's Circus came to town," Sonny said in a strange tone. "Men and Fiends out of Wetull."

"Are you running a fucking fever?" Andrew grunted. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Eh, I don't envy what you'll see if I'm right, Baker," Sonny replied, still not making any sense.

"Where are your lads?" Andrew asked changing the topic.

"Toft is still around. Kobus took a dive in the mud some years back," Sonny replied and this time he sounded really distressed. "Asmus was killed two days ago, about forty kilometers deeper in them woods south from here. Naut Clos fell at 'Small Plains' to a Legion Scorpio's bolt and Rinus Boer… well, he met a big Northern girl some years back, selling milk near Midlanor. He works for the Duchess of Krakenhall now. Might have gotten the best deal out of all of us."

"Um," Andrew murmured and shifted on the couch, his eyes on the muddy road.

"Got a lot of them killed, Baker. Whole families snuffed out," Sonny said hoarsely.

"Yeah," Andrew agreed with him. "Ye did. Why couldn't you stay away from all of it?"

"Thought about it, but I couldn't. The Eikenaar bloodline is evil, Andrew. Pirates, the lot of them. Insane murdering monsters."

"Damn it, Sonny," Andrew grunted. "You think another lord would be better? Even if Elsanne makes a mess of it, Anker would put that little bastard on the throne even if he has to nail his little arse on it. It won't happen, the change you dreamed about."

"Regia has a better king. Both of them," Sonny argued. "Even Wetull is run by a ruler that values the lives of his people."

"That's a bunch of bullshit," Andrew rumbled. "You don't know them other rulers. And Wetull? How the fuck would you even know? Have you gone mad, Sonny?"

"I found enlightenment in my final days," Sonny laughed bitterly, then he grimaced and stared at the bridge barely visible in the purple light of dawn. "Mayhap, I've gone mad. I met the Queen," he added.

Andrew stood back. "Is she a monster? Crazy?" He probed and Sonny Lindberg shrugged his shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Could be she's worse even. She's believable," the rebel leader replied cryptically. "Got a pardon for the boys at least," he pursed his mouth, glanced in Andrew's angled face intently for a moment and then let out a deep sigh. "I hope."

Andrew waited for the riders to establish a perimeter and then walked to the bridge's message board to nail the notice over the old soaked scrolls. He had put his black executioner's hood over the head before crossing the bridge, the round holes at the eyes the only opening on the thick mask fashioned out of stitched pieces of leather and the few people loitering near the bridge's exit —towards the capital— stepped out of his way apprehensively. The moment Andrew turned around to walk back to his wagon —now parked behind the wooden scaffold, the engineers had raised during the night.

He heard the murmurs from the civilians reading the bold letters of the notice and grimaced under the mask. One of the men-at-arms in their escort, a Crow named Evert Mossman, stopped him. The greyish metal chestplate soaked from the morning mist over the nearby river. Evert was a member of the Old Crows, the veteran Scaldingport outfit incorporated the Vulture's Own of Beren Kuik and several other mounted groups out of the big duchy, with the exception of Forestfort.

"Heb Jong is coming up with a dozen men," Evert rustled matter-of-factly, a hardened Issir with cold, coal-black, eyes. "We need to hold a perimeter here after he does and wait until the Baron's escort arrives with the Queen."

"I was told not to wait," Andrew grunted with a glance at Sonny who was still sitting on the wagon's driver couch.

"You'll wait for the Queen," Evert crooked his mouth annoyed. "Where's your boy?"

"Stayed at Slager's," Andrew lied. "Something he ate didn't agree wit him."

"Um. There's a bug making the rounds," Evert murmured and gave a nod with his helmed head. "Come summer it'll be worse, mark my words."

Andrew didn't say anything but strolled back to the waiting Sonny Lindberg. The rebels' leader looked more pensive than what he did during their trip. Few things hit as hard, as knowing you are about to have yer life snuffed out. The man that stands defiant afore his end, is a god darn brave son-of-a-bitch, but not many of those exist, Andrew thought.

Most Headsmen go through their lives without ever meeting one. You could tell. Sonny wasn't a coward, but the end scared him despite putting up a brave face.

It wasn't something to hold over the condemned man and Andrew didn't.

"There's the future Queen," Sonny told him nervously half an hour later. The large gongs and bells had sounded inside the waking up capital and the noise had stirred the soldiers and people living in the three military and two civilian camps across the city's mighty walls. Andrew watched the crowd growing around the scaffold, keeping about ten meters away to avoid the mounted Crows, and as the news spread about the upcoming execution more and more were trickling out from the many streets leading to the main road near the bridge.

Andrew got up and went to check on the block. A square piece of solid old granite he kept on the back of the wagon. He had already set it up in the middle of the scaffold, took care to secure it with wood stops —as you didn't want it wobbling about— and even brushed some of the old moldy gore from the worn-out because of heavy-usage surface with a cloth. A futile effort as the blood it had seeped into the stone and changed its color permanently.

Few noticed it in their final moments, but Andrew always did his best not to burden their psyche further where he could. Of the fifty-two executions he had performed all but ten had been done on this ugly piece of granite block.

It gave him comfort seeing it there in the middle of the scaffold. For you need your executioner to be calm of mind and stable of hand, in order to get the job done swiftly. Else the gruesome deed could turn into a horror show and nobody wants this in their resume or better yet their consciousness.

"Old De Braal," Sonny said when he returned to help him up the stairs of the scaffold, "there's a killer for you. Arms soaked in blood up to them elbows. And that snake De Moss, who doesn't even have the decency to do the killings himself."

"Uhm," Andrew murmured, too preoccupied with the growing crowd to pay attention to the queen's entourage. A hundred people had turned to five times that and with the market usually busy during early morning, there was potential here to have a lot of people showing up in a hurry.

"The Wetull knight," Sonny said and pointed with his head, when they reached the top of the scaffold over the murmurs of the crowd who could now see them clearly.

Andrew turned to behold the large escort of lords and knights near the Queen and immediately spotted the strangely-armoured knight. He couldn't help it. The stranger was the only other man wearing a mask there, besides Andrew. Only his was made out of gleaming metal, resembling white-silver and depicted a sober frozen face, the only blemish been a dent marring part of his cheek under the eye. The armour wasn't as visible, but it was equally impressive, the chestplate strangely shaped and covered with tiny markings.

"The men with him are not humans," Sonny said, but while Andrew could see the hooded figures standing near the exotic knight, he couldn't tell whether Lindberg was correct or not.

"What are they?"

"Zilan. Creatures with pointy ears and glowing eyes that wield magic, straight out of yer worst nigthmares. That's who captured me, Baker," Sonny replied a sadness in his voice and then gulped down nervously. "They would have killed me just like that and it would have served no purpose."

"Citizens of Kaltha," a young man with De Braal's eyes but a more handsome face started, as Andrew tried to discern whether what Sonny had revealed was true. Big Butcher's Circus, he'd called it. Alien knights and mages out of Wetull, here to do the Queen's bidding. The notion too bizarre to fathom. How do you control them? Who would bring them here but a madman set on burning the realm down? Andrew turned his eyes on the comely Queen, clad in a dark-purple cloak and riding a healthy grey stallion. She caught his gaze and returned it in a dignified manner. "Per the wishes of late King Theun, Uher bless his name, this man," the young Issir nobleman continued, probably one of De Braal's children, but before he could continue the first braves out of the unruly crowd voiced out their objections.

"That's Sonny Lindberg!"

The nobleman grimaced, and then continued. "This rebel, is hereby given the proper punishment for his many crimes, like plundering of the King's wagons, raiding estates outside Castalor and stealing livestock, as well as outright slayings, including the murder of Lauren's Meerman in 174, the King's herald, found hang by the neck with a copper wire near Boar's Horn Bridge—"

"Meerman was a rapist!" Someone barked hoarsely and several others, probably belonging to the same group incited the crowd by mentioning more pressing matters.

"The livestock Lindberg returned to the poor folk!" Another yelled as the crowd moved against the perimeter, then retreated when Evert's and Jong's men unsheathed their swords and pushed their horses forward.

"More than the Viscount ever did for us!" A third yelled under the agreement of the big majority of the restless crowd.

De Braal clenched his jaw, pushed aside with his horse the shocked at the accusation Viscount De Moss —although Andrew didn't find the lord of the camps believable— and made to ride near the front, where the worst of the hecklers had gathered, but the Queen reacted faster and galloped her own magnificent horse, after uttering a sharp command, undercutting the livid Baron.

De Braal pulled hard at the reins and turned his mount not to collide with the petite Queen and the crowd came to a nervous silence seeing the graceful figure riding near the scaffold near them.

"Sonny Lindberg is no saint!" The Queen declared with a loud yell and glared at the unruly crowd of mostly Issirs, although Lindberg spotted a typical Lorian near the right side of the platform, watching the scene with calculating eyes. "Neither is any of us!" Elsanne continued, her fierce gaze sweeping about and stopping on the edgier of the onlookers. "Even so, we are here to try and take the capital back from the heathens! The bigger rapists and the known enslavers. Those who torture and kill our own… every day they hurl them butchered from the parapets! What did Sonny Lindberg do while we strive under the most difficult of conditions to make the impossible somehow possible? He raided the supply caravans! Stole food coming here, some of it for all you! Did you see any of that food? Speak to me right here, right in this moment! Where is it? For I didn't see none of it. For this vile act alone, his fate is sealed. I want you all to look into your souls deeply for the truth and then tell me if I'm wrong. I sympathize with some of Lindberg's concerns and I heard him already in private, he can attest to that fact himself. Mister Lindberg, here's your chance," the Queen finished and then stared at the tensed Andrew Baker and the chained Crimson Band leader.

Sonny stared at the expecting crowd for a long moment, his eyes searching their faces, sometimes darting nervously to the sober men-at-arms perimeter, but the moment dragged and the now visibly shaking man said nothing.

"See ye in the Halls of the Brave, Sonny!" A young man yelled from the crowd, his voice breaking the spell and the deeply moved Lindberg nodded with his head in acknowledgment as the crowd erupted in cheers.

Andrew glanced towards the Queen and while Elsanne offered him an encouraging smile, her famed jade-eyes were cold, and without any mercy.

The Headsman does his job without thinking. He follows a prearranged set of moves, choreographed in such a way as to avoid a mishap. The latter happen unfortunately all the time. Nobody is perfect, but you have to strive to do as good a job as it is possible without hesitation.

Andrew waited for Sonny to kneel before the block and place his head in the proper position. He didn't have to correct his stance, as there isn't really a perfect way to setup a man for this task. What you need to do is raise the sword high with both hands, so the pommel is above yer nose, keep it straight and breathe out. Aim an inch in front of the block, yer eyes there and not the exposed neck in between. You have to avoid striking the stone's edge or gods forbid the block itself.

Andrew tuned out the noise of the crowd and the different animals surrounding the scaffold. Sonny's frantic, heavy breathing that filled the air. He could feel the familiar tickling burn in his bulging biceps from holding the massive executioner's blade upright for such an extended period. Then, without any warning, he brought it down, pouring all his strength into the brutal strike.

A muffled thud followed by another echoed as the severed head rolled across the wooden scaffold, finally coming to a stop at the edge. Blood hissed as it sprayed from the gruesome wound, reaching a good three meters out and staining some of the horses' hindquarters, accompanied by the horrified gasps of the onlookers.

Thus, the deed was finished.

Number fifty four.

Andrew started moving before the shock of the execution wore off from the stunned crowd. There were plenty of soldiers nearby, but you never know what each man has in his heart. Or woman for that matter. He picked up Sonny's gory head, and placed it in a hemp bag to hide it from the onlookers. Tied the bag on his belt with a hook that served this exact purpose and walked with heavy boots on the creaking planks towards the rest of the body.

He grabbed it by the legs to pull it away from the block, fresh gore pouring over the old stone, and brought it to the back of the scaffold. Andrew jumped down, after making a short trip back to the block to pick up his greatsword, and landed heavy on the cobblestone.

The Headsman worked with purpose the next couple of moments, mindful of his surroundings. While some words were exchanged the majority of the crowd slowly dispersed, casting some last stares of pity at the headless corpse of Sonny Lindberg and a good number of baleful looks towards Andrew Baker.

Trying not to let it bother him, Andrew loaded the body on the bed of his wagon, tossed the bag next to it and then covered it with a dirty, foul-smelling sheet. Ten minutes later he was already on the wagon's couch, still wearing the executioner's mask, but knowing most people could recognize him inside the market on the morrow.

Eh, Andrew grimaced, having trouble breathing through the thick leather and thought of Dexter who would be waiting for him at Granlake village. With a sigh to let out the tension he'd amassed, Andrew clicked his tongue and then snapped the long reins to get Gus and Gasper going.

He wanted to get across the bridge as fast as he could, make a stop to ditch Sonny's body in the woods and then continue towards Granlake. Andrew took the turn south after the bridge, cutting through the hospital camp in order to avoid the traffic, but didn't stop there as he didn't want the news getting out. The hood was back in the bag and he'd worn a hat, to match his overcoat, but the man delivering the body of Lindberg was the heavy favorite of being his executioner. People ain't that stupid.

Less than ten kilometers down Granlake Road, Andrew stopped the mules and climbed down from the driver's seat to get rid of the body in the thickening woods. Stan had already paid him and he'd no reason seeing any of the other lords, especially the Crows. He didn't care about the siege or the creatures from Wetull. Nor did he fear about the Queen's chances despite what anyone else seemed to believe.

A survivor finds a way to stay afloat and the package made no difference. Short or tall. Muscular or pretty.

The worst thing about thinking about all dangerous possibilities in your head, when you are anxious and stressed after a job, is you tend to miss the obvious. So when Andrew, still in the process of hauling the headless body out of the wagon, heard the horses approach from the wrong way, he was caught unawares.

"Baker," a rough voice said and the sweaty despite the cold Andrew froze. He dropped Lindberg half-in and half-out of the bed and turned around to stare the large group of riders that blocked the road to Granlake.

At least thirty of them, half of them on horses, well-armoured and armed, with the typical red sash tied at their waists. Andrew rubbed at the stubble on his face and let out a disappointed grunt.

"Is that you Toft?" He asked and tried to recognize the young man he remembered in the hardened face of the mounted warrior, now in his late thirties. "How did you know, I'll come this way?"

"I didn't. Another group is watching the main road. I was just heading towards the Queen's to receive our pardons. A herald nailed the news on a post last night," Toft replied and his eyes stayed on the partially revealed gory corpse next to Andrew. "But I recognized the ridiculous hat and then the blade. Is that Sonny, you have back there?"

Andrew licked his lips and then nodded.

Toft Bakema removed his helm and run a gloved hand over his thinning white hair. "I hoped she'll show mercy."

"Yeah," Andrew murmured tensely, thinking this was a shitty way to get butchered, but then again, he just couldn't object to the reality with a straight face, or pretend it would be unexpected. You wait for this moment in this kind of job.

Which is why so few people do it.

Eh.

"We were working for Van Durren," Toft continued, his mind preoccupied with other matters, years and experience turning the brass and murderous young man of yesteryears to a more thoughtful killer probably? "For fuck's sake. This is so wrong."

"Technically you were still acting against the queen," Andrew said trying to turn this into a civil conversation by the side of the country road.

"True. Sonny was good man, Baker," Toft said hoarsely. "Like a father for many of us."

"He wasn't alone in his final moments," Andrew said. "We had a good talk about the past and some of you were there to keep him company."

"You'll give us the body," Toft said brusquely and signed for one of the armed riders to retrieve it, not waiting for his answer.

"No objection," Andrew agreed of course and took a step away from the back of the wagon. "I have… ahm, you need to take the bag too," he cleared his throat. "Listen… Toft—"

"We ain't going to kill you, Baker," Toft cut him off. "Presumably, we are now reformed citizens and you are just a tool. Would you have hesitated chopping off a lord's head or the queen's?"

"Nay. Though I would have taken better care of keeping my identity hidden and probably picked a safer route to leave afterwards," Andrew replied and some of the mournful brigands laughed at his words.

"Always with a good turn of phrase," Toft remarked and stared down the road leading back towards the bridge and Uxrid River. "You think the queen will honor her word?" He asked Andrew soberly.

Andrew breathed out. "I don't think Kaltha is a good place for you."

"Should I bring the men to her camp?" Toft insisted.

"I wouldn't, in yer stead,' Andrew told him.

"She won't then," Toft grimaced and glanced at the nervous Andrew. "I guess we turn around here boys. Head for Stag's Bridge," he paused to touch Sonny's body when it passed next to his horse carried by the Crimson Band rider. "Saved by the Headsman. There's a twist nobody saw coming. No offense, but I really hope, I'll never see you again, Baker. For real," Toft Bakema grunted and gestured for the long procession to turn around.

An exhausted Andrew stayed near his wagon to watch the Crimson Band militia slowly disappearing in the thickening forest and this time he did hear the clip-clopping of an approaching animal, coming from the opposite direction. A mule. Driven by the Lorian he'd noticed at the execution that morning.

The covered in a winter chiton and tunic Lorian approached, his sandaled feet protected by muddy woolen socks and brought his mule near the sitting on the bed of the wagon Headsman.

"Good day sir," the Lorian greeted him in a booming voice, full of enthusiasm.

"Hey," Andrew murmured with a grimace of annoyance.

"There's a bit of sunlight peeking through the clouds," the Lorian pointed at the cloudy, miserable sky. "It offers the possibility of a new chapter."

"I really don't see it, the possibility, Mister…?"

"Potis Cunas," the Lorian introduced himself with a smile. The name pointing towards Regia, as Lesia had more diverse even poetic naming schemes. A light-grey belt was wrapped around his waist, a cheaper variation of the sash the Crimson Band had on, which seemed a bit off, given the good quality of Potis' garbs.

"Andrew Baker."

"Of course. Ha! Given we are in a disclosing mood, I must confess, I was following you, Mister Baker," Potis revealed and Andrew tensed up. "Wanted to reveal myself earlier, but decided not to interfere given the number of armed men surrounding you. One must separate bravery from stupidity. Yes?"

Andrew nodded. "Listen, I… have people waiting for me," he told him and Potis nodded in understanding.

"We all have. As I said earlier, Mister Baker, here lies the chance to make a new beginning."

"What do you want?" Andrew grunted and jumped from the bed to the ground. He stood taller from the Lorian even with the latter on top of the mule.

"Let me tell you where I'm going first," Potis said.

"I don't care, Mister Potis or whatever yer name is," Andrew retorted and Potis raised his hands as if he found his argument reasonable.

"Still," he insisted with the same friendly manner. "What if I told you, I'm seeking a partner for a journey towards Forestfort?"

"My son is waiting for me in Granlake," Andrew said and paused seeing the Lorian shake his head.

"All boats are taken by the Queen to supply the army," Potis Cunas explained.

"How are you getting there then?" Andrew asked said and Potis pointed to the sky above them.

"What is a peeking light on a dark sky?" He jested.

"You tell me," Andrew grunted, almost at the end of his wits with the stranger, but troubled by the news about the boats.

"Hope," Potis replied and smiled as if it should have been obvious from his previous words. "I have a boat and a captain eager to reach Visserhaven. A carriage waiting there to bring us to Forestfort and then beyond."

"What do you need me for then?" Andrew asked curious about his motives.

"I'm a lonely man of Lorian origin," Potis explained. "This part of the journey is easy, but come Forestfort all manner of different jurisdictions converge and it is difficult to cross Mudriver without raising eyebrows. With a known, travelling for his own business companion and we shan't judge Mister Baker here, my own presence shall pale in comparison, even melt into the shadows."

"What is your trade, Mister Potis?"

"I work with scrolls," Potis replied vaguely.

The mule was bare of naught but its saddle and the latter didn't look to be civilian in origin.

"What's beyond Forestfort?" He asked the strange Lorian and the man made a face as if yet again Andrew had asked an easily answered question.

"Greater Regia," Potis had replied, and there was no hiding the pride in his voice. "Airy villas, open verandas and luxurious baths, near gardens bathed in sun if that is your preference. Where even men such as yourself, might find fresh employment, luck into a new deal or just continue where they stopped, Mister Baker. Justice needs its instruments."

Killing people was his meaning.

So not exactly a new chapter, as the man had claimed earlier, but the same job, in a new setting and under a different management.

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