The Lost War by Karl Gallagher (novel24 .txt) 📗

chair that Stonefist had acquired to look impressive at feasts. It sat forward of the normal position for the rulers, just within the shadow of the roof. Stonefist sat and gestured to the herald.

“Let House Chevron approach the Lord High Executioner.”

Duke Stonefist kept himself from smiling. The herald, at least, wasn’t tired of the title.

House Chevron formed a line abreast. The two strongest men held Thistle by the arms in the middle. They were a new house, formed by a merger when the Autocrat forbade cookfires for groups of six or less. Two couples and some strays were now united in pursuit of a firewood ration. The name came from the most common element in the arms of the founders.

Thistle was the youngest of the household. Supposedly eighteen, though Stonefist didn’t trust his ID. Clothes and hair were dirtier than those of anyone else in sight. The only bruises on his face were the faded remnant of when he’d resisted after his second offense.

“What is your complaint?” demanded the Lord High Executioner.

Lord Maximus was head of the house. He stepped forward, dragging Thistle with him. He was a fighter, both heavy and rapier, now cutting wood and hauling water. “Theft, Your Grace. This boy grabbed Ivy’s meat ration out of hand, ran off, and ate it all. When we found—”

“Let the victim speak.”

Maximus closed his mouth.

A woman not much older than Thistle took one step forward and curtsied. “I’m Ivy, your Grace. We were eating around the fire. I was nibbling on some arrowleaves. I eat slow, because the faster I eat the sooner I’m hungry again. Had a bit of venison in my left hand, because, um.” She glanced at Thistle. “We’ve learned not to leave meat on our plate. Well, Thistle stood up and reached past Pritchel and just grabbed it out of my hand. I was so shocked I couldn’t say anything until he was around the next tent.”

“Thank you. Who witnessed this?” Stonefist raised a hand.

Most of House Chevron raised their hands in response. The judge pointed at the one on the end.

“Um, yer honor, I didn’t see him grab the meat, but I saw her holding it and then Thistle ran off and she didn’t have it any more.”

“Thank you. Next?”

A few offered more details but they all agreed on what happened. Stonefist let them all talk. Someone might have new information. And he wanted time for an idea to pop up.

When the last witness stepped back into line it was clear what had happened. Thistle stared at his feet. Tears dripped off his cheeks.

The judge waved Maximus back. The head of house reluctantly released his grip on the boy, leaving him alone before the throne.

“What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” Thistle didn’t raise his head as he spoke.

“Sorry for what?”

Thistle didn’t respond immediately. Stonefist waited.

“For stealing her food, I’m sorry, but I was so hungry!”

The Lord High Executioner said, “We’re all hungry.”

“I just couldn’t help myself, I’m sorry.” The boy was looking at the judge now, a desperate expression on his face.”

“Well. What punishment would help you help yourself from now on?”

Thistle paled. “I’ll—I’ll go away. Leave. You won’t have to put up with me any more.”

Stonefist kept his face in the solemn judge’s mask. “Exile is the Kingdom’s traditional penalty for most misbehavior. But here and now that’s a death sentence.”

He raised his voice. “Does anyone think this crime deserves death?”

No one answered. Some of House Chevron shook their heads.

“No exile then. But what will we do with you?”

This would be a perfect moment for the boy to burst out with a solution that would satisfy everyone. Instead he kept crying, eyes on his feet again.

Stonefist sighed. It was time to think of the next boy who’d be tempted to steal. “Thistle, take off your shirt.” He turned to his squire, standing in the back corner. “Sharpedge, bring me that rope.”

Sharpedge loosened the stay rope from a pole the pavilion didn’t need in good weather.

With a wail Thistle dropped to his knees. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry!”

The Lord High Executioner took the jute rope. It felt rough and scratchy under his hands. He slid the wood slider down to make it one long loop. “Take off your shirt,” he ordered.

Thistle pulled his tunic over his head, leaving him in only modern jockey shorts and leather moccasins. “Please, I’m sorry, I am.” He held his hands out as a beggar’s.

Inspiration hit.

“Are you sorry?” said Duke Stonefist. “Prove it.”

He dropped the rope into Thistle’s hands.

That replaced the terror with confusion.

“If you’re so sorry, show us. Give yourself the punishment you deserve.” Stonefist stood and walked to beside the penitent. A wave of his fingers brought Thistle to his feet.

The watchers, from king to commoners, were silent.

Thistle’s jaw worked as he stared at the rope in his hands. He let it slide down until his hands were just above the slider. Then he stood straight, drawing a deep breath. A long moment went by. Shoulders tensed. He flung the rope over his shoulder.

Stonefist could see the flinch on the boy’s face as the end of the loop hit his back. The next two blows were softer.

“It’s not a punishment if it doesn’t hurt, boy,” said the Lord High Executioner, his voice pitched for Thistle alone.

The blows became stronger, wilder. The swish of the rope and crack of it meeting flesh drowned out the gasps and mutters from the onlookers. Red welts multiplied across Thistle’s back. Blood drops appeared where they met.

A sloppy swing caught Thistle’s ear, sending him staggering to the side as he flinched. The next blow drew blood in two places.

“Stop!” cried Ivy. She was crying. When she’d