The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (15 page)

Laylan’s ears pricked up. Everyone in
Laven-lay thought that Corellian could not shift.

It took a moment for Sham to grasp what
Corellian was asking. When he realized he was not being threatened,
he relaxed a little.

“I need to know,” persisted Corellian,
“please.”

A bitter smiled twisted the corners of Sham’s
lips. “We all need things we don’t get. Why should I help you,
friend-of-my-enemies?”

Laylan watched Corellian. He could see the
iteration considering a threat, but of what? Sham was afraid of his
other form, but clearly Corellian could not shift at will. Besides,
Laylan didn’t think the boy had the stomach for torture.

“You’ll find out,” said Sham ominously. “One
day, they all will.”

At that moment Syrill reappeared with wood
faun guards, carrying blankets, ointment, and water. Corellian
withdrew as they began to dress Sham’s wounds. When they’d finished
and wrapped him in blankets, Laylan produced a packet from under
his cloak and laid it in Sham’s hands. “Meat,” he said and added a
jug of water.

Sham stared at the food, then pushed it away.
You’ll eat it when I’m gone, though,
thought Laylan,
because you’re a survivor, and you haven’t quite given
up.

Syrill had already departed, and the wood
faun guards were outside. As Laylan turned to leave, Sham called
after him. “You could have made a good Raider, Laylan. Is there any
particular reason you decided to become a traitor instead?”

Laylan turned slowly. “One cannot betray
without first giving allegiance.”

“You were born a Canisarian.”

“Perhaps,” said Laylan, “and were you born a
Raider?” He went out and shut the door.

Chapter
4. A
Festive Occasion

Sham is in Laven-lay, to be hanged publicly
on the 42
^nd
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.

Chapter
5.
The Curious Construction of a Gallows

I had thought to be entertained today, but
the actual event exceeded all expectations.

—Syrill of Undrun, 42
^nd
day of red
month, 700

Sham’s body fell through the trapdoor and
landed with an unpleasant thump on the lower platform. The crowd
began to murmur. Chance stared through the opening at his feet. For
a second nobody moved. Then several guards hurried up from below,
carrying Sham back to the high platform. Chance was having a
furious discussion with the executioner. “The rope’s frayed,”
babbled the shelt. “Had nothing to do with me, sir. I only turn the
lever.”

Chance paced like a caged animal while a
guard shimmied up the beam to re-knot the rope. They made a new
noose and repositioned Sham. The murmuring crowd watched as Sham
hobbled onto the trapdoor again.

This time when Sham hit the boards, he let
out a yelp. Chance’s eyes blazed, and he rounded on the unfortunate
executioner. “Gabalon’s fang! Are you completely incompetent?”

The faun shrank away. After a quick
consultation with his subordinates, he reported that the medal ring
that held the rope had come loose from the beam.

“Then tie the rope around the beam!” snarled
Chance.

“It’s tall; I’ll give you that,” commented
Sham as he made his third arrival on the upper platform. “If you
keep dropping me, it should eventually do the job.”

Chance glared at him. “If you have anything
to do with this, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Kill me?”

The crowd was becoming increasingly restless
and noisy. Some whispered the name “Fenrah,” but a hoard of
murderous wolflings completely failed to materialized. The shelts
on the scaffold re-knotted the rope. The crowd began to relax.

The executioner looked at Chance.

“Oh, just do it!” he snapped.

The lever turned.

Sham cringed.

And nothing happened.

Chance jerked Sham out of the way and bent to
examine the trapdoor. The executioner continued to jiggle his
lever, but without success. The guards slunk to and fro, trying to
look busy. “Maybe it’s jammed,” offered Sham unhelpfully.

Chance turned slowly. “One more word out of
you, and I will run you through myself.”

The guards began to tap the door with their
hooves. “It’s not a baby faun,” grated Chance. “It’s a dead tree.
Put some muscle into it.” He moved forward and stamped on the
trapdoor, which opened with surprising ease. Chance let out a
startled yell as his hooves slipped into empty space. He flailed
and managed to catch himself before he followed Sham’s path to the
lower level. Chance hoisted himself out, eyes murderous, face
crimson.

A titter of laughter started in the crowd.
Sham was grinning, but his face became serious as Chance’s eyes
fell on him. The wolfling shrugged. “Seems to be working now.”

Thump.

“Sir,” stammered a soldier. “The door
has...has fallen off, sir.”

Now the crowd was laughing loudly.

“We’ll fix it,” spoke up an officer
desperately. “Someone’s already gone to get a ladder.” At that
moment the gong and the city tower bells began clanging wildly.
Suddenly the entire central pole of the scaffold creaked and gave
way. Sham wriggled desperately to get out of the noose, but he
needn’t have worried. The rope was already falling free. As the
timber struck the ground, a noise like thunder rocked the earth,
and white smoke fountained out of the scaffold.

The crowd went mad. Another explosion sounded
from somewhere in the castle grounds and then another. The smoke
made the area around the scaffold impenetrable. Over all the noise
rose a high, thin wail—a wolf howl.

Sham had not moved from his place on the top
tire. His hands were still tied, and he could barely walk. His
guards were running into each other in panic and confusion, and he
could no longer see Chance. The smoke streaming from the scaffold
had turned blood red. Through the ruined hole where the beam had
broken, a figured immerged. She was black as night, and she went
through the terrified soldiers like a scythe through wheat. She
stopped beside Sham. “How many times have I told you to wear your
boots?”

Sham grinned at her. “I like the smoke and
thunder, but did you have to keep dropping me?”

Fenrah turned to block a blow aimed at her
head. “Had to wait for the signal from the others. We stalled as
well as we could. You can thank Sevn for the thunder. He’s
desperate to explain the process, and everyone else is bored of
listening. It took two other packs and some irregulars to get you
out of here.”

“Oh?” Irregulars where Fenrah’s term for
sympathetic fauns. “I can’t walk very well, Fenny.”

“You won’t have to.”

Sham saw that another wolfling had crawled
out of the broken beam. By the size, it must be Xerous. In seconds,
he’d cleansed the platform of all remaining fauns. Another howl
sounded quite close, and Fenrah answered. A moment later, two
wolves bounded up out of the smoke. “Enden!” Sham threw his arms
around the shaggy neck.

Fenrah and Xerous both got on Dance, Sham on
Enden, and they reached the ground in two bone-jarring leaps. Then
they were running through the clearing smoke, past hysterical
shelts and cats, towards the wall and freedom.

* * * *

Laylan and Shyshax found Chance at the foot
of the scaffold bellowing for archers. A dead faun hit the ground
beside them.
If Fenrah comes off that platform and finds Chance,
she’ll cut him to pieces,
thought Laylan. He grabbed the faun
and half dragged him out of the smoke, back towards the castle,
shouting something about finding more organized troops. At the
entrance, they did indeed meet a small group of soldiers, still in
some semblance of order.

“Wolflings!” gasped one. “Near the east gate.
I think we put them to flight.”

“Idiot!” snapped Chance. “They were a decoy.
The prisoner has escaped with Fenrah and perhaps another Raider.
They’ll be on wolves by now. FIND THEM!”

“Yes, sir.” The faun scurried away before
Chance could hit him.