Days of Revolution: Issue 2, to be released in instalments.
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In a world much like Earth’s 17th and 18th centuries, it is a time of political upheaval, of republican uprisings and monarchist restoration, of sham democracy and the dictatorship of the mob. These are the stories of those who fall foul of those mobs and the revolutionary spirit of denunciation that drives them.
The Fortress of Barchtagn, the former Holy Empire of Nichtargen, now the League of Central Polities, year 1550 PA
6th Day of Baltan
Elise za Brovet stared out of the window of her cell, looking down at the courtyard. Below, the cart trundled away, carrying another dozen people off to a brutal, bloody death. To think that a year ago, I was sipping apple-wine and politely laughing at some lords’ supposedly witty comments. And now, here she was, standing in a cold cell with thirty other nobles, waiting to be called to an appointment with the fallende axt. Combing an errant strand of hair back into her tate zi mautan arrangement, Elise considered her impending fate. At least her hair would not obstruct the blade.
She could remember how, a few months ago, all of this would have seemed too fantastical to believe. The Divine Emperor was above all, and none could challenge an order that the Great Beasts themselves had endorsed. But then the 14th and 23rd Gottscharfen regiments had mutinied over lack of pay and provisions, the failed harvests had caused peasant uprisings, and the heretical Electorate Council had whipped the urban poor into a frenzy. Backed by disloyal soldiers, they had taken the capital and a handful of other key cities, and then spread their influence outwards. A month after the majority of the royal court had been rounded up and the Heisenbach Palace seized, the Emperor and dozens of others had been tried for ‘treasonable incompetence’. All had been found guilty.
Elise could still hear her father’s sombre, disbelieving tones as he told his family of the emperor’s death. Two carts had departed from Barchtagn fortress, accompanied by drummers and soldiers waving the banner of the so called ‘League of Central Polities’. The foremost cart had held the Emperor, one of his mistresses, and a handful of senior ministers and their wives. The second held two of the Empress’ ladies-in-waiting and another five senior courtiers, along with the wives of two. From what Elise had heard, most of the condemned had met their deaths with the dignity their rank demanded, save for the royal mistress, who had needed to be held down until the blade fell. Two days later, another pair of carts had carried the Empress, her three closest ladies-in-waiting, and another nine courtiers to the scaffold. This had included the Emperor’s sister and another of his mistresses, both perishing with noble deportment.
If that had been all the rebels had done, Elise would have happily condemned them to Breaking Upon The Wheel, or to be Quartered by Horses, for their transgression. But the executions had continued. When Crown Prince Adolfnus and Princess Henrietta had followed their parents to the axe, accompanied by eleven more nobles, it had proven that not even the children of nobility were safe. Elise had heard that the next few rounds of carts had held every one of the prince and princesses Nichtargen-born cousins, as well as every match the royal family had considered for them amongst the country’s nobility. That alone amounted to nine noble youths and twelve noble girls, a clear sign of the Revolution’s depravity. For that, Elise hoped they faced the worst torments of Shrougan.
And now Elise stood in a bare, cold cell, waiting to be dragged onto a scaffold and beheaded in front of a crowd of filthy peasants. As the daughter of a minor courtier and tax collector, the mob would surely cheer if her death required two or more blows. Still, her name had not been called this time, and for that, Elise thanked Matatho the Ever Merciful. She would live to spend another night sleeping on a straw pallet with four other women, wearing the same dress she had been wearing at her trial three days ago. A handful of paces away, the Countess zi Clarne leant against the wall, comforting her daughter as the girl sobbed against her shoulder. Anna zi Clarne would have been ‘of heading age’ during the rule of the Emperor, old enough to be executed under law. Under the Electorate Council, her birth alone was enough to condemn her, even if she had not been of majority age. Elise only hoped that she and her fellow prisoners would not need to wait too long.
7th Day of Baltan
Morning came, and the guards came to take those condemned away to their execution. Elise waited with bated breath as the list of names was read out.
“The Duchess zi Drucke”. A woman of middling years climbed to her feet from where she had been kneeling on the floor, mouthing her last prayers.
“The Baron za Golne”. A young man, handsome by Elise’s estimation, stepped forward, a brave look on his face as his knees trembled.
“The Duke zi Uttlan and daughters”. The duke stepped forward, followed by three teenage girls. Their ‘short sack’ gowns, while certainly voluminous, did little to hide their obvious fear.
“The Praetor za Takale”. So, the rebels were even going after praetors now? Well, what better way to enforce your own laws than to dispose of the magistrates who upheld those of the true rulers of Nichtargen.
“The Marquise zi Gotilan and family”. The guards stepped forward as a mass, entering the crowd of nobles, and dragging out a man and woman, followed by three teenage children. That poor girl, Elise thought as she looked at the youngest zi Gotilan. She barely seems of marrying age, never mind ‘heading’.
“Elise za Brovet”. Her blood ran cold. Had her name just been called? Her time had come? Steeling herself, she strode forward before the guards could drag her out of the cell. As she followed her fellow condemned down the stairs, to the courtyard with its’ waiting cart, Elise heard the names of yet more prisoners being called.
“The Baron za Voke. Margarite zi Hage. The Lord zi Drensan. Maria zi Folnige. The Baroness za Hershe and daughter…”
Blotting the voice of the guard from her mind, Elise turned her thoughts inward, beginning a recitation of the Martyrs Catechism under her breath, as her feet carried her down the corridor and closer to the cart. Oh, how had it come to this?
The Fortress of Barchtagn, the former Holy Empire of Nichtargen, now the League of Central Polities, year 1550 PA
6th Day of Baltan
Elise za Brovet stared out of the window of her cell, looking down at the courtyard. Below, the cart trundled away, carrying another dozen people off to a brutal, bloody death. To think that a year ago, I was sipping apple-wine and politely laughing at some lords’ supposedly witty comments. And now, here she was, standing in a cold cell with thirty other nobles, waiting to be called to an appointment with the fallende axt. Combing an errant strand of hair back into her tate zi mautan arrangement, Elise considered her impending fate. At least her hair would not obstruct the blade.
She could remember how, a few months ago, all of this would have seemed too fantastical to believe. The Divine Emperor was above all, and none could challenge an order that the Great Beasts themselves had endorsed. But then the 14th and 23rd Gottscharfen regiments had mutinied over lack of pay and provisions, the failed harvests had caused peasant uprisings, and the heretical Electorate Council had whipped the urban poor into a frenzy. Backed by disloyal soldiers, they had taken the capital and a handful of other key cities, and then spread their influence outwards. A month after the majority of the royal court had been rounded up and the Heisenbach Palace seized, the Emperor and dozens of others had been tried for ‘treasonable incompetence’. All had been found guilty.
Elise could still hear her father’s sombre, disbelieving tones as he told his family of the emperor’s death. Two carts had departed from Barchtagn fortress, accompanied by drummers and soldiers waving the banner of the so called ‘League of Central Polities’. The foremost cart had held the Emperor, one of his mistresses, and a handful of senior ministers and their wives. The second held two of the Empress’ ladies-in-waiting and another five senior courtiers, along with the wives of two. From what Elise had heard, most of the condemned had met their deaths with the dignity their rank demanded, save for the royal mistress, who had needed to be held down until the blade fell. Two days later, another pair of carts had carried the Empress, her three closest ladies-in-waiting, and another nine courtiers to the scaffold. This had included the Emperor’s sister and another of his mistresses, both perishing with noble deportment.
If that had been all the rebels had done, Elise would have happily condemned them to Breaking Upon The Wheel, or to be Quartered by Horses, for their transgression. But the executions had continued. When Crown Prince Adolfnus and Princess Henrietta had followed their parents to the axe, accompanied by eleven more nobles, it had proven that not even the children of nobility were safe. Elise had heard that the next few rounds of carts had held every one of the prince and princesses Nichtargen-born cousins, as well as every match the royal family had considered for them amongst the country’s nobility. That alone amounted to nine noble youths and twelve noble girls, a clear sign of the Revolution’s depravity. For that, Elise hoped they faced the worst torments of Shrougan.
And now Elise stood in a bare, cold cell, waiting to be dragged onto a scaffold and beheaded in front of a crowd of filthy peasants. As the daughter of a minor courtier and tax collector, the mob would surely cheer if her death required two or more blows. Still, her name had not been called this time, and for that, Elise thanked Matatho the Ever Merciful. She would live to spend another night sleeping on a straw pallet with four other women, wearing the same dress she had been wearing at her trial three days ago. A handful of paces away, the Countess zi Clarne leant against the wall, comforting her daughter as the girl sobbed against her shoulder. Anna zi Clarne would have been ‘of heading age’ during the rule of the Emperor, old enough to be executed under law. Under the Electorate Council, her birth alone was enough to condemn her, even if she had not been of majority age. Elise only hoped that she and her fellow prisoners would not need to wait too long.
7th Day of Baltan
Morning came, and the guards came to take those condemned away to their execution. Elise waited with bated breath as the list of names was read out.
“The Duchess zi Drucke”. A woman of middling years climbed to her feet from where she had been kneeling on the floor, mouthing her last prayers.
“The Baron za Golne”. A young man, handsome by Elise’s estimation, stepped forward, a brave look on his face as his knees trembled.
“The Duke zi Uttlan and daughters”. The duke stepped forward, followed by three teenage girls. Their ‘short sack’ gowns, while certainly voluminous, did little to hide their obvious fear.
“The Praetor za Takale”. So, the rebels were even going after praetors now? Well, what better way to enforce your own laws than to dispose of the magistrates who upheld those of the true rulers of Nichtargen.
“The Marquise zi Gotilan and family”. The guards stepped forward as a mass, entering the crowd of nobles, and dragging out a man and woman, followed by three teenage children. That poor girl, Elise thought as she looked at the youngest zi Gotilan. She barely seems of marrying age, never mind ‘heading’.
“Elise za Brovet”. Her blood ran cold. Had her name just been called? Her time had come? Steeling herself, she strode forward before the guards could drag her out of the cell. As she followed her fellow condemned down the stairs, to the courtyard with its’ waiting cart, Elise heard the names of yet more prisoners being called.
“The Baron za Voke. Margarite zi Hage. The Lord zi Drensan. Maria zi Folnige. The Baroness za Hershe and daughter…”
Blotting the voice of the guard from her mind, Elise turned her thoughts inward, beginning a recitation of the Martyrs Catechism under her breath, as her feet carried her down the corridor and closer to the cart. Oh, how had it come to this?
Sorry for the delay everyone, I've been trying to take the feedback from Issue 1 to heart, and unfortunately have had a few minor health difficulties that are interfering with my usual suave good natured demeanour, and playing havoc with my muse. I hope to post an update tomorrow.
If you have any feedback from what has been posted so far, please feel free to respond.
If you have any feedback from what has been posted so far, please feel free to respond.
Don't worry, we can wait few days more :-)
I hope you recover well from your health issues!
Surrounded by the guards, Elise and her fellow condemned were marched down the corridor to the stairs that led to the courtyard and the waiting carts. In front of her, the eldest of the zi Uttlan sisters nearly tripped over the edges of her skirt as she walked down the stairs in a daze. The three girls had their hair arranged much like Elise, resembling a mass of sheep’s wool. Taking hold of her own skirts, she lifted them slightly as she made her own descent. Before long, they had come to the small antechamber that held the door to the yard. At the open door, one of the guards was taking hold of the prisoners and tying their hands behind their backs, likely to prevent resistance at the scaffold. They would then be shoved through out into the courtyard, where another pair of soldiers would seize them by the shoulders and march them to the cart. Are we to be denied even the dignity of meeting our deaths unbound?
While she waited her turn, Elise looked around at those who would accompany her to the fallende axt. While some were staring ahead blankly, none seemed to be fearful. Good, at least they maintained some decorum. Most of the men still wore their hair powdered, though the youngest of the zi Gottilan boys had brown locks arranged into an approximation of the formal styles of his father and brother. Several of the women wore caps, sensible given that not all had been able to cut their hair in preparation for their necks being ‘trimmed’. Given that many had been seized while going about their lives, or even while at court, the majority of the prisoners wore everyday cloths. A handful in Elises’ cell only wore smocks and shirts, but none had been sentenced to death today.
The guard tied her hands together, and then it was out into the open space of the courtyard. A soldier took hold of her shoulder and dragged her towards the cart. Brute, she was noble-bred, there was no need to compel her, she would have walked to her death without someone forcing her! The Duchess zi Drucke and zi Uttlan family were already within, trying desperately to maintain their composure. The praetor was struggling against the guards, decrying them all as traitors and heretics. The Marquis zi Gotilan and his family were climbing in one by one, the Marquise and her daughter holding onto each other as the girl buried her capped face in her mothers’ shoulder. With a shove from one of the guards, Elise was forced closer to the cart.
It soon became clear that the single cart was not large enough to hold every prisoner sentenced to death that day. A second one was soon found, and Elise climbed in just as the first, carrying eight of the condemned, set off. The zi Gotilan family boarded at the same time, the youngest weeping openly. Elise could have told her to compose herself, but the girl was younger than she was. It was natural that she would give in to her fears. The Baron za Voke and his niece, an old-maid by the name of Margarite zi Hage, stepped into the cart, and then they were off, exiting the courtyard accompanied by four soldiers beating out a sombre tune on their drums. Another soldier, a member of the traitorous Gottscharfen regiments, waved the banner of his degenerate masters as he marched directly in front of the cart. Elise could see that they were perhaps twelve paces behind the first cart, likewise surrounded by revolutionary soldiers.
As they were carried through the streets, Elise glanced at her surroundings. They looked to be heading down the Kaiserstause, one of the major arrangement of roads within the capital. On previous occasions that she had seen it, usually through the window of a carriage, the well-maintained paths connecting the Heisenbach Palace, Barchtagn Fortress, and Imperial Square had been festive and orderly. Not anymore. The statues of previous kings, lords, knights and heroes, had been pulled down and smashed, and crude effigies of the ‘Transcendent Man’ so beloved by the peasants erected in their place. Honestly, what is divine about a naked man with a scythe? The only statues not defiled by their filthy hands were those of the Great Beasts. It would seem even heretics had their limits.
The proud houses and grand buildings that lined the road had been defaced, with the banner of the Electorate Council hanging everywhere. Revolutionary slogans had been crudely painted across the walls and doorways of many of them. ‘DEATH TO THE NOBLES’, ‘OFF WITH THE QUEENS HEAD’, ‘FREEDOM FOR ALL’, ‘IN THE FIELDS THE VIRTUOUS WILL REAP THE REWARDS OF RIGHTOUSNESS’. Half of them were misspelled, and Elise could understand why. Really, what business did shopkeepers and farmers have running a country? The streets were filled with the unwashed masses, all shaking their fists and heaping abuse upon the nobles as they were carried to their deaths. Why was this happening? What had they ever done to deserve this?
Looking away from the bestial mob, Elise studied the poor unfortunates who accompanied her to the scaffold. She thought back on what she knew of them from their time sharing the same cell. The Marquis zi Gotilan had held extensive lands in one of the few regions with a healthy crop the previous year. He had supported the Loaf Tax, which taxed merchants and peasants selling bread and grain outside of their lords’ lands. A fine idea, couldn’t have the peasants making money from a crisis. His wife, a pretty woman of thirty or so, was known to be a woman of fashion. It was said that her dresses cost more than those of the Empress. Her two sons were typical for their age, enjoying all the prerogatives of nobility without any of the responsibilities. Elise had heard some disturbing rumours, but paid them no heed. Peasants lied, especially maids. The girl, Katerina was her name, had been presented at court a mere two weeks before the unrest began. It would seem she had charmed the Empress, and his Divine Majesty as well, for which the revolutionaries were now demanding her head.
The Baron za Voke was an older nobleman, with powdered hair and a fine waistcoat. He had likely been arrested while at court. Other than his position, Elise could not think of any reason why the revolutionaries would wish him dead. He was known to have voted in favour of having the previous Electorate Council broken on the wheel last time they had attempted to rise up. It would be just like the peasants to murder a nobleman simply for doing his duty. His niece, her hair unpowdered and arranged into a bun, had apparently declined all offers for her hand, instead riding and painting. When the revolution came, she had been seized and dragged to the capital on charges of ‘failing to provide for the People’. What a joke. The nobility have no duty to feed the vulgar classes…
Then the cart went round the final turn, and there in front of all of them, was the scaffold. And the fallende axt, its great iron blade hanging between two uprights of wood. By the Golden One….
While she waited her turn, Elise looked around at those who would accompany her to the fallende axt. While some were staring ahead blankly, none seemed to be fearful. Good, at least they maintained some decorum. Most of the men still wore their hair powdered, though the youngest of the zi Gottilan boys had brown locks arranged into an approximation of the formal styles of his father and brother. Several of the women wore caps, sensible given that not all had been able to cut their hair in preparation for their necks being ‘trimmed’. Given that many had been seized while going about their lives, or even while at court, the majority of the prisoners wore everyday cloths. A handful in Elises’ cell only wore smocks and shirts, but none had been sentenced to death today.
The guard tied her hands together, and then it was out into the open space of the courtyard. A soldier took hold of her shoulder and dragged her towards the cart. Brute, she was noble-bred, there was no need to compel her, she would have walked to her death without someone forcing her! The Duchess zi Drucke and zi Uttlan family were already within, trying desperately to maintain their composure. The praetor was struggling against the guards, decrying them all as traitors and heretics. The Marquis zi Gotilan and his family were climbing in one by one, the Marquise and her daughter holding onto each other as the girl buried her capped face in her mothers’ shoulder. With a shove from one of the guards, Elise was forced closer to the cart.
It soon became clear that the single cart was not large enough to hold every prisoner sentenced to death that day. A second one was soon found, and Elise climbed in just as the first, carrying eight of the condemned, set off. The zi Gotilan family boarded at the same time, the youngest weeping openly. Elise could have told her to compose herself, but the girl was younger than she was. It was natural that she would give in to her fears. The Baron za Voke and his niece, an old-maid by the name of Margarite zi Hage, stepped into the cart, and then they were off, exiting the courtyard accompanied by four soldiers beating out a sombre tune on their drums. Another soldier, a member of the traitorous Gottscharfen regiments, waved the banner of his degenerate masters as he marched directly in front of the cart. Elise could see that they were perhaps twelve paces behind the first cart, likewise surrounded by revolutionary soldiers.
As they were carried through the streets, Elise glanced at her surroundings. They looked to be heading down the Kaiserstause, one of the major arrangement of roads within the capital. On previous occasions that she had seen it, usually through the window of a carriage, the well-maintained paths connecting the Heisenbach Palace, Barchtagn Fortress, and Imperial Square had been festive and orderly. Not anymore. The statues of previous kings, lords, knights and heroes, had been pulled down and smashed, and crude effigies of the ‘Transcendent Man’ so beloved by the peasants erected in their place. Honestly, what is divine about a naked man with a scythe? The only statues not defiled by their filthy hands were those of the Great Beasts. It would seem even heretics had their limits.
The proud houses and grand buildings that lined the road had been defaced, with the banner of the Electorate Council hanging everywhere. Revolutionary slogans had been crudely painted across the walls and doorways of many of them. ‘DEATH TO THE NOBLES’, ‘OFF WITH THE QUEENS HEAD’, ‘FREEDOM FOR ALL’, ‘IN THE FIELDS THE VIRTUOUS WILL REAP THE REWARDS OF RIGHTOUSNESS’. Half of them were misspelled, and Elise could understand why. Really, what business did shopkeepers and farmers have running a country? The streets were filled with the unwashed masses, all shaking their fists and heaping abuse upon the nobles as they were carried to their deaths. Why was this happening? What had they ever done to deserve this?
Looking away from the bestial mob, Elise studied the poor unfortunates who accompanied her to the scaffold. She thought back on what she knew of them from their time sharing the same cell. The Marquis zi Gotilan had held extensive lands in one of the few regions with a healthy crop the previous year. He had supported the Loaf Tax, which taxed merchants and peasants selling bread and grain outside of their lords’ lands. A fine idea, couldn’t have the peasants making money from a crisis. His wife, a pretty woman of thirty or so, was known to be a woman of fashion. It was said that her dresses cost more than those of the Empress. Her two sons were typical for their age, enjoying all the prerogatives of nobility without any of the responsibilities. Elise had heard some disturbing rumours, but paid them no heed. Peasants lied, especially maids. The girl, Katerina was her name, had been presented at court a mere two weeks before the unrest began. It would seem she had charmed the Empress, and his Divine Majesty as well, for which the revolutionaries were now demanding her head.
The Baron za Voke was an older nobleman, with powdered hair and a fine waistcoat. He had likely been arrested while at court. Other than his position, Elise could not think of any reason why the revolutionaries would wish him dead. He was known to have voted in favour of having the previous Electorate Council broken on the wheel last time they had attempted to rise up. It would be just like the peasants to murder a nobleman simply for doing his duty. His niece, her hair unpowdered and arranged into a bun, had apparently declined all offers for her hand, instead riding and painting. When the revolution came, she had been seized and dragged to the capital on charges of ‘failing to provide for the People’. What a joke. The nobility have no duty to feed the vulgar classes…
Then the cart went round the final turn, and there in front of all of them, was the scaffold. And the fallende axt, its great iron blade hanging between two uprights of wood. By the Golden One….
Imperial Square had been the centre of the city. One hundred feet by one hundred feet, surrounded on all sides by the major buildings of the city; the Temple of Divine Glory, the Guildhall, the High Courts. Now, it was still the centre, but the signs of revolutionary rule were everywhere. A dozen banners each hung from every building, the Guildhall taken over and used as the headquarters for the Electorate Council, and of course, the large wooden scaffold in the centre. On it stood the fallende axt. The Scythe of Equality. The Avenger of Wrongs. Poetic names, Elise thought, for such an ugly device. Two posts half-again as tall as a man, joined at the top by a crossbeam, and at the bottom by a block of wood. Suspended between the two posts by a series of ropes and pulleys was another wooden block, this one bearing a large iron axe blade. There was an empty cart nearby, clearly for carrying away the bodies. Elise felt her gorge rise. She and her fellows would not even be permitted a decent burial, just thrown into some pit in the ground, like a common peasant. A crowd of peasants surrounded the scaffold, screaming their bloodthirst to the heavens. Such vulgar people. No respect for their betters.
The cart drew closer, bringing Elise and her compatriots closer to their deaths. She trembled a little as she contemplated what awaited her. The contraption had been proposed as a means of executing criminals quickly and ‘humanely’. Ridiculous. Only nobles deserved the swift death of beheading, and they would do quite well with the traditional axe or sword, thank you. But the commoners had built them regardless, allowing them to butcher dozens of people in an hour. Elise had heard that an entire company of loyal soldiers had been beheaded in less than two hours with only one such device. As the scaffold came closer, she could see that there was a small table attached to the block, of the height and width to accommodate someone’s chest. Leather straps were visible, clearly designed to secure the victim in place. A natural modification, given how Lady za Barcht had disgraced herself when her time came. Elise had met the Emperor’s common-born mistress once at court, and found her to be a most vulgar and base person. It was hardly surprising that the guards had needed to hold her down until the blade fell. Elise had heard that some variants, built around the empire and over the borders, had rectangular blades or a sort of wooden brace or collar. The peasants had no consistency, and those countries who had embraced the ‘enlightened’ ideals that had brought about this rebellion were even worse. Not that it mattered in the end, the heads of the nobles would fall just the same.
The first cart arrived at the foot of the scaffold. To the roars of the crowd, the prisoners disembarked, mustering what dignity they could, given that their hands were bound. Guards standing by the steps in preparation shoved and prodded with their muskets, forcing the doomed nobles to gather around the foot of the steps. The cart moved away, and the one carrying Elise took its place. Again the guards approached, seizing the Baron za Voke and dragging him to where the rest of the condemned stood. The other prisoners followed suit. The first to board the cart, Elise was second to disembark, Katerina zi Gotilan following her in a state of clear bewilderment. The fifteen prisoners were corralled into a dense group that was shielded from the mob by perhaps a dozen soldiers, not that this prevented the vulgar peasants from shouting abuse. The usual things: insinuations about their parentage, accusations of alleged wrongs, and other such rebellious thoughts.
The third cart arrived, and once more the guards herded the prisoners into the growing huddle. Elise recognised the seven new arrivals from the condemned cell. Maria zi Folnige, a young noblewoman known for her charity works with the local temple, hair bound within a linen cap. The Baroness za Hershe and her daughter, wearing typical day gowns for wearing around the house. The Count za Moulge, a most ill-tempered gentleman. The Duchess zi Gothe, a vain woman in her forties, known for having bedded half her manservants. Annalise and Maria za Beckett, sisters who had apparently tried to orchestrate some sort of attempt to rescue the Crown Prince. And now, here they all stood. Nobles, aristocrats, those touched by the grace of Providence and its agents, the Great Beasts. Overthrown by those who were destined to serve them, condemned to die violent, bloody deaths. Elise could do nothing but stand there with the others, hands bound, neck bared, waiting to be called up the steps and put to death. The blade of the axt fell, then rose, a test run of what was the come. A figure in the austere coat of the Clerks of the Electorate strode to the front of the scaffold and held his hands up to the mob. The seething crowd stilled, growing quiet. Elise held her breath, and waited.
-/-
Gunther at’Heinke finished checking the pulley system and turned his attention to the trigger. A quick tug, and the blade fell, thudding into the block. Half a foot deep, with two concave indentations, the block was not all that different from those which countless nobles had split their blood on across the centuries. But the miracle of justice above it would allow the People to slaughter the nobles like the fat pigs they were. Taking hold of the rope, Gunther lifted the blade back into position, ready for the first execution of the day. He looked out at the assembled crowd. Over a hundred people stood before him, baying for the blood of the aristos. After being downtrodden all their lives, the idea of bringing the bloated lords and ladies to justice had them in ecstasy. Gunther sympathised entirely. Ever since his father had been broken on the wheel for pickpocketing some lord, he had wanted to tear down the entire corrupted establishment. And now, as part of the Grand Revolution, the hand of justice, by the grace of the Electorate Council and the Great Beasts, he had the chance to do so.
Looking the other way, he stared down at the two dozen or so prisoners. Degenerate filth, living off the stolen efforts of others. Gunthers’ father was not the only man to suffer from their callous, casual cruelty. He had heard stories of men fed to hounds for poaching, women burned at the stake for resisting assault, entire families worked to death in mines and fields so that a single noble could show off their wealth and food to others. Some of those standing at the foot of the steps looked rather young, some of the women were near-children, but it didn’t matter. They would have grown up to be another generation of parasites, bringing more death and pain to the people. It was better to end them now, before they could take more from the people. The Clerk of the Electorate, having gained the silence he needed, withdrew a scroll from within his coat, and began the days’ grim business.
-/-
The Clerk, yet another traitor to the rightful government of Nichtargen, produced the list of the condemned. Elise waited for the first name to be called. Would it be her? While she did not wish to die, it would at least spare her from witnessing the deaths of her compatriots. The Clerk cleared his throat, and spoke.
“The Lord zi Drensan, for most maliciously starving the people in a time of famine, and conspiring to overthrow the Electorate Council.”
Peasant drivel for taking what any lord was due from his tenants and their fields, and attempting to muster royalist forces to defeat the rebellion. The nobleman in question stepped forward, facing his death with the stoic bravery expected of an aristocrat. His dignity was plain for all to see, but the mob cared not. Their jeers and slanders continued all the way up the steps.
Once zi Drensan was standing atop the scaffold, two of the executioners’ assistants took hold of his shoulders. Elise watched as they shoved him closer to the dread machine, then forced him to his knees. The dignified nobleman attempted to speak his final words, as was his right and time-honoured tradition, but they instead forced him down until his upper body lay across the shelf or bench protruding from the block. The leather straps were tightened, securing him in place. Elise could only watch as the executioner, a beefy man with a cruel face, yanked down of the trigger. The blade dropped and the kneeling figure shuddered. She could see nothing but the very back of the man, but she knew it had been a clean blow. Stepping forward, the executioner reached down for something out of sight, in front of the two uprights. He lifted it up, seeming to show the dripping object to the crowd, which roared in approval. Then he moved to show it to the right-hand side of the scaffold, and Elise saw. The round object was the head of Lord zi Drensan, blood dripping from the stump of his neck like crimson rain. The truncated body, with its coat and bloodstained cravat, was untied and dumped into the waiting cart. The head was dropped into a large basket standing to the right of the axt, and the blade rose again. Elise allowed herself a small gasp of fear. Oh, Gods. So much blood…
The cart drew closer, bringing Elise and her compatriots closer to their deaths. She trembled a little as she contemplated what awaited her. The contraption had been proposed as a means of executing criminals quickly and ‘humanely’. Ridiculous. Only nobles deserved the swift death of beheading, and they would do quite well with the traditional axe or sword, thank you. But the commoners had built them regardless, allowing them to butcher dozens of people in an hour. Elise had heard that an entire company of loyal soldiers had been beheaded in less than two hours with only one such device. As the scaffold came closer, she could see that there was a small table attached to the block, of the height and width to accommodate someone’s chest. Leather straps were visible, clearly designed to secure the victim in place. A natural modification, given how Lady za Barcht had disgraced herself when her time came. Elise had met the Emperor’s common-born mistress once at court, and found her to be a most vulgar and base person. It was hardly surprising that the guards had needed to hold her down until the blade fell. Elise had heard that some variants, built around the empire and over the borders, had rectangular blades or a sort of wooden brace or collar. The peasants had no consistency, and those countries who had embraced the ‘enlightened’ ideals that had brought about this rebellion were even worse. Not that it mattered in the end, the heads of the nobles would fall just the same.
The first cart arrived at the foot of the scaffold. To the roars of the crowd, the prisoners disembarked, mustering what dignity they could, given that their hands were bound. Guards standing by the steps in preparation shoved and prodded with their muskets, forcing the doomed nobles to gather around the foot of the steps. The cart moved away, and the one carrying Elise took its place. Again the guards approached, seizing the Baron za Voke and dragging him to where the rest of the condemned stood. The other prisoners followed suit. The first to board the cart, Elise was second to disembark, Katerina zi Gotilan following her in a state of clear bewilderment. The fifteen prisoners were corralled into a dense group that was shielded from the mob by perhaps a dozen soldiers, not that this prevented the vulgar peasants from shouting abuse. The usual things: insinuations about their parentage, accusations of alleged wrongs, and other such rebellious thoughts.
The third cart arrived, and once more the guards herded the prisoners into the growing huddle. Elise recognised the seven new arrivals from the condemned cell. Maria zi Folnige, a young noblewoman known for her charity works with the local temple, hair bound within a linen cap. The Baroness za Hershe and her daughter, wearing typical day gowns for wearing around the house. The Count za Moulge, a most ill-tempered gentleman. The Duchess zi Gothe, a vain woman in her forties, known for having bedded half her manservants. Annalise and Maria za Beckett, sisters who had apparently tried to orchestrate some sort of attempt to rescue the Crown Prince. And now, here they all stood. Nobles, aristocrats, those touched by the grace of Providence and its agents, the Great Beasts. Overthrown by those who were destined to serve them, condemned to die violent, bloody deaths. Elise could do nothing but stand there with the others, hands bound, neck bared, waiting to be called up the steps and put to death. The blade of the axt fell, then rose, a test run of what was the come. A figure in the austere coat of the Clerks of the Electorate strode to the front of the scaffold and held his hands up to the mob. The seething crowd stilled, growing quiet. Elise held her breath, and waited.
-/-
Gunther at’Heinke finished checking the pulley system and turned his attention to the trigger. A quick tug, and the blade fell, thudding into the block. Half a foot deep, with two concave indentations, the block was not all that different from those which countless nobles had split their blood on across the centuries. But the miracle of justice above it would allow the People to slaughter the nobles like the fat pigs they were. Taking hold of the rope, Gunther lifted the blade back into position, ready for the first execution of the day. He looked out at the assembled crowd. Over a hundred people stood before him, baying for the blood of the aristos. After being downtrodden all their lives, the idea of bringing the bloated lords and ladies to justice had them in ecstasy. Gunther sympathised entirely. Ever since his father had been broken on the wheel for pickpocketing some lord, he had wanted to tear down the entire corrupted establishment. And now, as part of the Grand Revolution, the hand of justice, by the grace of the Electorate Council and the Great Beasts, he had the chance to do so.
Looking the other way, he stared down at the two dozen or so prisoners. Degenerate filth, living off the stolen efforts of others. Gunthers’ father was not the only man to suffer from their callous, casual cruelty. He had heard stories of men fed to hounds for poaching, women burned at the stake for resisting assault, entire families worked to death in mines and fields so that a single noble could show off their wealth and food to others. Some of those standing at the foot of the steps looked rather young, some of the women were near-children, but it didn’t matter. They would have grown up to be another generation of parasites, bringing more death and pain to the people. It was better to end them now, before they could take more from the people. The Clerk of the Electorate, having gained the silence he needed, withdrew a scroll from within his coat, and began the days’ grim business.
-/-
The Clerk, yet another traitor to the rightful government of Nichtargen, produced the list of the condemned. Elise waited for the first name to be called. Would it be her? While she did not wish to die, it would at least spare her from witnessing the deaths of her compatriots. The Clerk cleared his throat, and spoke.
“The Lord zi Drensan, for most maliciously starving the people in a time of famine, and conspiring to overthrow the Electorate Council.”
Peasant drivel for taking what any lord was due from his tenants and their fields, and attempting to muster royalist forces to defeat the rebellion. The nobleman in question stepped forward, facing his death with the stoic bravery expected of an aristocrat. His dignity was plain for all to see, but the mob cared not. Their jeers and slanders continued all the way up the steps.
Once zi Drensan was standing atop the scaffold, two of the executioners’ assistants took hold of his shoulders. Elise watched as they shoved him closer to the dread machine, then forced him to his knees. The dignified nobleman attempted to speak his final words, as was his right and time-honoured tradition, but they instead forced him down until his upper body lay across the shelf or bench protruding from the block. The leather straps were tightened, securing him in place. Elise could only watch as the executioner, a beefy man with a cruel face, yanked down of the trigger. The blade dropped and the kneeling figure shuddered. She could see nothing but the very back of the man, but she knew it had been a clean blow. Stepping forward, the executioner reached down for something out of sight, in front of the two uprights. He lifted it up, seeming to show the dripping object to the crowd, which roared in approval. Then he moved to show it to the right-hand side of the scaffold, and Elise saw. The round object was the head of Lord zi Drensan, blood dripping from the stump of his neck like crimson rain. The truncated body, with its coat and bloodstained cravat, was untied and dumped into the waiting cart. The head was dropped into a large basket standing to the right of the axt, and the blade rose again. Elise allowed herself a small gasp of fear. Oh, Gods. So much blood…
I've been really enjoying this series so far. The world-building has been fantastic, as have the depictions of those who have been (or will be) dispatched by the blade.
If I may suggest one little thing, it would be to add a more vivid description of the condemned individuals clothing (color, style, etc.). Other than that small suggestion, nothing else comes to mind at the moment. I'm looking forward to the next installment, and to eventually seeing Elise za Brovet part company with her head.
If I may suggest one little thing, it would be to add a more vivid description of the condemned individuals clothing (color, style, etc.). Other than that small suggestion, nothing else comes to mind at the moment. I'm looking forward to the next installment, and to eventually seeing Elise za Brovet part company with her head.
Part 4
The clerk once again turned his eyes to the list in his hand. His rat-like features remained impassive as he read out the name of the next victim to lose their head.
“Sophia za Hershe, for conspiracy to undermine the Electorate Council and fermenting war against the People”
Aah, the poor daughter of the Baroness za Hershe. Elise had heard of how the girl had supposedly written a pamphlet decrying the barbarism of the Electorate, in an attempt to drum up support for the Royalist Cause. She was also supposedly promised in marriage to some major Royalist leader, which would have been the first of several key alliances to produce a strong foundation for a restoration of the monarchy.
The teenaged girl, the brown curls of her hair in disarray, was seized by the shoulders and bodily dragged up the steps of the scaffold as her mother protested. Elise could hear Sophia’s’ own cries as she fought the guards’ grip.
“No, no, unhand me! Mama, don’t let them, Mama!”
She could only watch as Sophia was forced to her knees, staring forward at the seething crowd. The bloodstained blade hung above all. Closing her eyes, Elise looked away, waiting for the sign that the noble maiden had been ‘shortened’. She did not need to wait long. A thud, the roar of the unwashed peasants, and a whimper from the Baroness as her daughter’s head was lifted high. Great Beasts, bringers of judgement and awe, why are you allowing this?
-/-
Gunther smiled to himself as some aristo-bred bitch was dragged up onto the scaffold. The girl was pretty, in a rounded, wide-eyed, sort of way. The day gown she wore was of a subdued green, unusual for a member of the nobility. Her hair, once arranged in one of the short, dense styles so loved by the upper classes, was looser now. Still, it would not get in the way of the blade. One of his assistants, Hans if he recalled correctly, put his hand on the ‘lady’s’ back and pushed, forcing her to step forward and closer to the bloody device. With another assistant, they made the girl kneel. From where he stood, Gunther could see what the bitch could not, not yet anyway. Beyond the bloodstained ridge of wood upon which the girl’s neck would rest, just below the smaller of the rounded divots, was a short, sloped ramp that ended just above a wicker basket. The blood of the Lord zi Drensan coated much of the ramp and interior of the basket. Gunther could imagine the wench’s horror when she saw that.
The young noblewoman seemed to steel herself, drawing on some hidden reserve of that damnable ‘dignified comportment’. Her lips trembled for a moment, and then she spoke, clear but obviously fearful.
“Perform you duty sirs, and pray dispatch me swiftly”
Gunther snorted. These nobles, with their supposed superiority and ‘dignity’. Just once, he would like one of the bloated pigs to beg or weep. Hans placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Hold still girl, and this’ll be quick”.
That was concerning. Perhaps he would need to mention this to the Clerk, have Hans investigated for royalist sympathies.
Sophia za Hershe laid her upper body down on the wooden platform and Gunther tightened the leather strap, securing her in place. The crowd was restless, champing at the bit for the sight of more aristocratic blood. Taking hold of the trigger, Gunther took a moment to savour the moment. This was what he lived for, bringing the traitorous vermin to justice. The noble wench was muttering some sort of prayer under her breath, entreating the Great Beasts to have mercy upon her soul, and not consign her to the attentions of Shrougan or Maliktan. Unlikely, given her crimes against the People. He pulled the trigger, and the blade fell. There was a meaty thud as the metal met the young woman’s neck, followed by a second, harsher one as it hit the wood. The head, with its arrangement of brunette curls, rolled down the ramp in a spray of blood and dropped into the basket. Yet more blood gushed from the neck stump as the truncated torso shuddered. Reaching down into the basket, Gunther withdrew the severed head. To the cheers of the crowd, he brandished his trophy. The wench’s eyes had rolled up in their sockets and her mouth hung partially open, with the very tip of the tongue protruding. Not so dignified now, are you? As his assistants untied the body and placed it in the waiting cart, he dropped the head into the larger basket off to the side. There it would wait until the days’ business was done, then it and the other heads would be mounted on the public gibbet for all to see.
-/-
Elise shook as the Clerk held up his list yet again. This was appalling. It was not how the nobility were meant to die. No final speech, no signalling your submission to death, just being butchered with your hands tied behind your back. The blade rose back to the top of the uprights, stained with fresh blood.
“The Baroness za Hershe, for correspondence with the enemies of the People and supporting the Royalist cause.”
Ridiculous. All the woman had done was play her part in restoring the true government of the Empire and arrange her late daughters’ marriage in a way that supported that noble goal. A life of duty and loyalty to the rightful rulers of this land, and she would die for it.
The Baroness stepped forward, hair bound within a linen cap, plum day gown doing little to hamper her movements. As she climbed the steps, Elise could only marvel at her comportment. The woman had just watched her daughters’ head be struck off and shown to a mob of jeering peasants, but she still held herself tall and erect, the very image of noble conduct in the face of death. This clearly offended the rebels, for when the Baroness reached the top of the scaffold, the two assistants took hold of the shoulders of her gown and pulled it down, leaving her upper arms and cleavage exposed. Elise could hear the noblewoman protesting over the jeers of the crowd, as she was forced to her knees and pushed forward onto the block. She watched this time, wishing to honour the dignity of the Baroness. The blade fell, the body convulsed, and Elise saw the executioner lift up a round object wrapped in white fabric, dripping red. And another of noble blood dies an obscene end.
-/-
The next aristo whore climbed the steps and Gunther felt his member stiffen. This one was in her thirties, well built, with an attractive if haughty face. Well, let’s see how long that haughtiness lasts. He signalled to Hans and the other assistant and they stepped forward. Unlike her daughter, this ‘baroness’ was wearing a dress with a collar slightly higher than was convenient. Couldn’t have that, could he? Taking hold of the collar, they pulled the dress down, displaying the near entirety of the noblewoman’s bust. The baroness gave a small shriek of indignation.
“In the name of Providence sirs, cover me!”
Gunther sneered. Typical noble, expecting to be treated as something other than a blight upon the lives of honest, gods-fearing people. Below them, the crowd roared their approval of this righteous humbling of the noble-bred strumpet.
The assistants placed their hands on the baroness’ shoulders and pushed down until she knelt on the boards of the scaffold. A shove and she was lying face down, her upper body secured to the small platform by the straps. As her neck met the bloodstained wood of the block, Gunther saw her try to recoil in revulsion. The woman’s trembling stilled, and she spoke.
“May you suffer the worst torments the Beasts can conceive, you faithless…”
Gunther tugged the trigger and the blade dropped. A crash, a thud, and the crowd cheered as the capped head tumbled down the small slope in a spray of blood. The bound hands of the headless corpse jerked, then slackened. He leant down and lifted the bloody object from the basket, gripping the hair through the cloth of the cap. The baroness’ eyes had gone wide when she felt the blade cut into her neck, but her mouth remained locked tight by the last spasms of her jaw muscles. Gunther smirked to himself as the crowd applauded the just and honourable sight of the nobility brought low. This is fate. This is the will of Providence.
-/-
Knees shaking, Elise heard the next name be called. Three dead in less than five minutes, where was the dignity in that? There should be an hour between executions, time to clean the scaffold and make everything presentable. And the condemned should have the opportunity for prayers and the blessings of priests! She could only watch, as the woman in question staggered to the foot of the scaffold and began climbing, before the clerk had even finished his ‘proclamation’.
“Margarite zi Hage, for depriving the people of food in a time of famine.”
That was absurd. It was the duty of the nobility to have all grain and produce collected and stored in a central location, to be distributed as the local lord saw best. Surely if food is in short supply, it is best that access be limited, isn’t it? And besides, everyone knew that the peasants skimmed food and hid it for their own gluttonous consumption.
As the latest noblewoman condemned to forfeit her head for the peasants’ amusement reached the top of the scaffold, Elise wanted to look away. Certainly, several of the younger prisoners and more fragile women were turning their heads from the scene, tears streaming from their cheeks. Elise was made of sterner stuff. A noblewoman must face death with calm and poise, and a lady of even her low rank would die well. And prepare by witnessing the deaths of others. She watched as Margarite was pressed to her knees and made to lie upon the block. The blade fell like lightning and the usual thud sounded. But not, Elise realised, the muffled crack of the metal meeting wood. The woman’s bound hands, still visible, were still convulsing and weren’t stopping. Elise nearly gagged in horror. By the Golden One, it wasn’t a clean blow. With a squelch, the blade pulled free from the meat of Margarite’s neck, rose to half-way up the posts, then fell again. This time, the hands stopped moving. Elise turned away as the executioner showed off the head to the crowd, which even now jeered. Under the monarchy, such incompetence would have had the executioner and his minions stoned by the howling mob. What is the world coming to?
-/-
The next traitor to the people mounted the scaffold and Gunther readied his dread machine. The blade was getting a bit dull, by the looks of it, but so what? The filthy aristocrats did not deserve a swift, easy death. The noblewoman, a plain, homely woman in her late twenties, was desperately trying to keep her composure, and present a façade of noble ‘decorum’. Gunther could see her hands trembling and the quivering of her lips. The traitor was terrified. Serves her right, aristo whore. His assistants forced her to her knees and pushed her down onto the block. On went the straps, and the useless aristocrat was in position. Her light blue dress contrasted with the brown and red of the axt. Gunther pulled the trigger, and the blade dropped.
It fell, and chopped half-way into the woman’s’ neck. Margarite zi Hage convulsed in pain, letting out a strangled, gurgling gasp. Gunther grimaced. As much as the noble-bred slattern deserved her fate, this seemed… unclean. The crowd clearly thought so to, booing and calling for him to finish the job. He hauled on the rope until the blade came free, raised the blade up until it was high enough, then dropped it. This time it cut through. The bloody head, its neck stump ragged and uneven, slid down the ramp and into the basket. Looking at his assistants, Gunther noticed that Hans was looking slightly sick, and most definitely uncomfortable with what had occurred. Perhaps he should report this apparent sympathy for the aristocrats to the authorities. Putting it from his mind, Gunther lifted the head of Margarite zi Hage out of the basket and displayed it to the crowd. Gripping the bun of black hair, now disorganised and messy from the fall, Gunther felt his spirits life. The noblewoman’s eyes were wide with pain, her mouth hanging slack. With a toss, he deposited it in the larger basket, then turned to receive the next traitor to the people.
-/-
“The Baron za Golne, for depriving the people of their wealth.”
Crude peasant drivel for taxing the grubby little farmers, as was his right. Elise shivered in horror as the nobleman in question was marched up the steps. Another round of cheers and insults of the crowd, the blade fell, and another bloody trophy was held aloft for the mop to jeer at. Terror was beginning to wrap itself around her heart. She was noble-bred, she must not allow herself to give in to base feelings of fear and self-pity. Yet all the same, this was not the dignified end that was her right as a lady. The crowd would not appreciate poise and grace in the face of death. Instead, they would howl and jeer, drowning out any words she would attempt to pass on to posterity.
Why must I perish like this?
The clerk once again turned his eyes to the list in his hand. His rat-like features remained impassive as he read out the name of the next victim to lose their head.
“Sophia za Hershe, for conspiracy to undermine the Electorate Council and fermenting war against the People”
Aah, the poor daughter of the Baroness za Hershe. Elise had heard of how the girl had supposedly written a pamphlet decrying the barbarism of the Electorate, in an attempt to drum up support for the Royalist Cause. She was also supposedly promised in marriage to some major Royalist leader, which would have been the first of several key alliances to produce a strong foundation for a restoration of the monarchy.
The teenaged girl, the brown curls of her hair in disarray, was seized by the shoulders and bodily dragged up the steps of the scaffold as her mother protested. Elise could hear Sophia’s’ own cries as she fought the guards’ grip.
“No, no, unhand me! Mama, don’t let them, Mama!”
She could only watch as Sophia was forced to her knees, staring forward at the seething crowd. The bloodstained blade hung above all. Closing her eyes, Elise looked away, waiting for the sign that the noble maiden had been ‘shortened’. She did not need to wait long. A thud, the roar of the unwashed peasants, and a whimper from the Baroness as her daughter’s head was lifted high. Great Beasts, bringers of judgement and awe, why are you allowing this?
-/-
Gunther smiled to himself as some aristo-bred bitch was dragged up onto the scaffold. The girl was pretty, in a rounded, wide-eyed, sort of way. The day gown she wore was of a subdued green, unusual for a member of the nobility. Her hair, once arranged in one of the short, dense styles so loved by the upper classes, was looser now. Still, it would not get in the way of the blade. One of his assistants, Hans if he recalled correctly, put his hand on the ‘lady’s’ back and pushed, forcing her to step forward and closer to the bloody device. With another assistant, they made the girl kneel. From where he stood, Gunther could see what the bitch could not, not yet anyway. Beyond the bloodstained ridge of wood upon which the girl’s neck would rest, just below the smaller of the rounded divots, was a short, sloped ramp that ended just above a wicker basket. The blood of the Lord zi Drensan coated much of the ramp and interior of the basket. Gunther could imagine the wench’s horror when she saw that.
The young noblewoman seemed to steel herself, drawing on some hidden reserve of that damnable ‘dignified comportment’. Her lips trembled for a moment, and then she spoke, clear but obviously fearful.
“Perform you duty sirs, and pray dispatch me swiftly”
Gunther snorted. These nobles, with their supposed superiority and ‘dignity’. Just once, he would like one of the bloated pigs to beg or weep. Hans placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Hold still girl, and this’ll be quick”.
That was concerning. Perhaps he would need to mention this to the Clerk, have Hans investigated for royalist sympathies.
Sophia za Hershe laid her upper body down on the wooden platform and Gunther tightened the leather strap, securing her in place. The crowd was restless, champing at the bit for the sight of more aristocratic blood. Taking hold of the trigger, Gunther took a moment to savour the moment. This was what he lived for, bringing the traitorous vermin to justice. The noble wench was muttering some sort of prayer under her breath, entreating the Great Beasts to have mercy upon her soul, and not consign her to the attentions of Shrougan or Maliktan. Unlikely, given her crimes against the People. He pulled the trigger, and the blade fell. There was a meaty thud as the metal met the young woman’s neck, followed by a second, harsher one as it hit the wood. The head, with its arrangement of brunette curls, rolled down the ramp in a spray of blood and dropped into the basket. Yet more blood gushed from the neck stump as the truncated torso shuddered. Reaching down into the basket, Gunther withdrew the severed head. To the cheers of the crowd, he brandished his trophy. The wench’s eyes had rolled up in their sockets and her mouth hung partially open, with the very tip of the tongue protruding. Not so dignified now, are you? As his assistants untied the body and placed it in the waiting cart, he dropped the head into the larger basket off to the side. There it would wait until the days’ business was done, then it and the other heads would be mounted on the public gibbet for all to see.
-/-
Elise shook as the Clerk held up his list yet again. This was appalling. It was not how the nobility were meant to die. No final speech, no signalling your submission to death, just being butchered with your hands tied behind your back. The blade rose back to the top of the uprights, stained with fresh blood.
“The Baroness za Hershe, for correspondence with the enemies of the People and supporting the Royalist cause.”
Ridiculous. All the woman had done was play her part in restoring the true government of the Empire and arrange her late daughters’ marriage in a way that supported that noble goal. A life of duty and loyalty to the rightful rulers of this land, and she would die for it.
The Baroness stepped forward, hair bound within a linen cap, plum day gown doing little to hamper her movements. As she climbed the steps, Elise could only marvel at her comportment. The woman had just watched her daughters’ head be struck off and shown to a mob of jeering peasants, but she still held herself tall and erect, the very image of noble conduct in the face of death. This clearly offended the rebels, for when the Baroness reached the top of the scaffold, the two assistants took hold of the shoulders of her gown and pulled it down, leaving her upper arms and cleavage exposed. Elise could hear the noblewoman protesting over the jeers of the crowd, as she was forced to her knees and pushed forward onto the block. She watched this time, wishing to honour the dignity of the Baroness. The blade fell, the body convulsed, and Elise saw the executioner lift up a round object wrapped in white fabric, dripping red. And another of noble blood dies an obscene end.
-/-
The next aristo whore climbed the steps and Gunther felt his member stiffen. This one was in her thirties, well built, with an attractive if haughty face. Well, let’s see how long that haughtiness lasts. He signalled to Hans and the other assistant and they stepped forward. Unlike her daughter, this ‘baroness’ was wearing a dress with a collar slightly higher than was convenient. Couldn’t have that, could he? Taking hold of the collar, they pulled the dress down, displaying the near entirety of the noblewoman’s bust. The baroness gave a small shriek of indignation.
“In the name of Providence sirs, cover me!”
Gunther sneered. Typical noble, expecting to be treated as something other than a blight upon the lives of honest, gods-fearing people. Below them, the crowd roared their approval of this righteous humbling of the noble-bred strumpet.
The assistants placed their hands on the baroness’ shoulders and pushed down until she knelt on the boards of the scaffold. A shove and she was lying face down, her upper body secured to the small platform by the straps. As her neck met the bloodstained wood of the block, Gunther saw her try to recoil in revulsion. The woman’s trembling stilled, and she spoke.
“May you suffer the worst torments the Beasts can conceive, you faithless…”
Gunther tugged the trigger and the blade dropped. A crash, a thud, and the crowd cheered as the capped head tumbled down the small slope in a spray of blood. The bound hands of the headless corpse jerked, then slackened. He leant down and lifted the bloody object from the basket, gripping the hair through the cloth of the cap. The baroness’ eyes had gone wide when she felt the blade cut into her neck, but her mouth remained locked tight by the last spasms of her jaw muscles. Gunther smirked to himself as the crowd applauded the just and honourable sight of the nobility brought low. This is fate. This is the will of Providence.
-/-
Knees shaking, Elise heard the next name be called. Three dead in less than five minutes, where was the dignity in that? There should be an hour between executions, time to clean the scaffold and make everything presentable. And the condemned should have the opportunity for prayers and the blessings of priests! She could only watch, as the woman in question staggered to the foot of the scaffold and began climbing, before the clerk had even finished his ‘proclamation’.
“Margarite zi Hage, for depriving the people of food in a time of famine.”
That was absurd. It was the duty of the nobility to have all grain and produce collected and stored in a central location, to be distributed as the local lord saw best. Surely if food is in short supply, it is best that access be limited, isn’t it? And besides, everyone knew that the peasants skimmed food and hid it for their own gluttonous consumption.
As the latest noblewoman condemned to forfeit her head for the peasants’ amusement reached the top of the scaffold, Elise wanted to look away. Certainly, several of the younger prisoners and more fragile women were turning their heads from the scene, tears streaming from their cheeks. Elise was made of sterner stuff. A noblewoman must face death with calm and poise, and a lady of even her low rank would die well. And prepare by witnessing the deaths of others. She watched as Margarite was pressed to her knees and made to lie upon the block. The blade fell like lightning and the usual thud sounded. But not, Elise realised, the muffled crack of the metal meeting wood. The woman’s bound hands, still visible, were still convulsing and weren’t stopping. Elise nearly gagged in horror. By the Golden One, it wasn’t a clean blow. With a squelch, the blade pulled free from the meat of Margarite’s neck, rose to half-way up the posts, then fell again. This time, the hands stopped moving. Elise turned away as the executioner showed off the head to the crowd, which even now jeered. Under the monarchy, such incompetence would have had the executioner and his minions stoned by the howling mob. What is the world coming to?
-/-
The next traitor to the people mounted the scaffold and Gunther readied his dread machine. The blade was getting a bit dull, by the looks of it, but so what? The filthy aristocrats did not deserve a swift, easy death. The noblewoman, a plain, homely woman in her late twenties, was desperately trying to keep her composure, and present a façade of noble ‘decorum’. Gunther could see her hands trembling and the quivering of her lips. The traitor was terrified. Serves her right, aristo whore. His assistants forced her to her knees and pushed her down onto the block. On went the straps, and the useless aristocrat was in position. Her light blue dress contrasted with the brown and red of the axt. Gunther pulled the trigger, and the blade dropped.
It fell, and chopped half-way into the woman’s’ neck. Margarite zi Hage convulsed in pain, letting out a strangled, gurgling gasp. Gunther grimaced. As much as the noble-bred slattern deserved her fate, this seemed… unclean. The crowd clearly thought so to, booing and calling for him to finish the job. He hauled on the rope until the blade came free, raised the blade up until it was high enough, then dropped it. This time it cut through. The bloody head, its neck stump ragged and uneven, slid down the ramp and into the basket. Looking at his assistants, Gunther noticed that Hans was looking slightly sick, and most definitely uncomfortable with what had occurred. Perhaps he should report this apparent sympathy for the aristocrats to the authorities. Putting it from his mind, Gunther lifted the head of Margarite zi Hage out of the basket and displayed it to the crowd. Gripping the bun of black hair, now disorganised and messy from the fall, Gunther felt his spirits life. The noblewoman’s eyes were wide with pain, her mouth hanging slack. With a toss, he deposited it in the larger basket, then turned to receive the next traitor to the people.
-/-
“The Baron za Golne, for depriving the people of their wealth.”
Crude peasant drivel for taxing the grubby little farmers, as was his right. Elise shivered in horror as the nobleman in question was marched up the steps. Another round of cheers and insults of the crowd, the blade fell, and another bloody trophy was held aloft for the mop to jeer at. Terror was beginning to wrap itself around her heart. She was noble-bred, she must not allow herself to give in to base feelings of fear and self-pity. Yet all the same, this was not the dignified end that was her right as a lady. The crowd would not appreciate poise and grace in the face of death. Instead, they would howl and jeer, drowning out any words she would attempt to pass on to posterity.
Why must I perish like this?
Part 5
Gunther ran a whetstone along the edge of the blade. These multiple chops were a waste of time. The whole point of using the axt was to ensure the aristo’s were dispatched in rapid succession, without any of the fanfare they believed was their due. And besides, their suffering was slightly disturbing… Gunther checked himself. Expressing sympathy for the enemies of the people was treason, deserving of nothing but death. He returned the whetstone to his pocket, as the Clerk read out the next name on his list.
“Annalise za Beckett, for attempting to deny the justice of the people.”
The noblewoman in question, her rather plain gown contrasting with the powdered curls arranged in rows atop her head, was dragged forward by the guards. As she was hauled up the steps, Gunther saw her turn back to look at a similar-looking young woman who stood trembling with the rest of the condemned.
“Fear not sister, for soon we shall sit with our noble prince Adolfnus, and witness the Great Beasts’ vengeance against these traitors.”
The woman, barely more than a girl like her sister, nodded as tears streamed down her face. The older Lady za Beckett turned her gaze back to the blade that towered over her, and gulped. The guards tightened their grip, and pushed her forward.
As Hans and the other assistant took hold of the prisoner and forced her to kneel, Gunther felt satisfaction in executing this particular traitor. This wench and her sister had attempted to release that petulant child of a Crown Prince from his cell, indulging some childish fantasy of heroically serving their ‘noble lord’. They’d been disguised as washerwomen, of all things! The guards had seen right through it immediately, but the stupid bastards had failed to apprehend them. If the aristo whores hadn’t tried to flee the country, planning a detour to intercept the cart carrying the prince and his sister to their scheduled execution and make a grand escape, Gunther believed they might have got away with it. Luckily, their ‘safehouse’ was not so safe. Faced with twenty musket-carrying Guards of the People, the noblebred traitors had surrendered to their fate. Of course, with the sheer number of nobles and other traitors who needed to be brought to justice, their execution had been delayed for almost a month. But now, at last, the two would-be heroes would be dealt with.
“Lie flat, girl. If you hold still, it’ll be nice and clean”
Yet again, Hans was treating the traitors with more kindness than they deserved. Gunther was growing more and more convinced that he needed to report his assistant for Royalist sympathies. The noblewoman was struggling to keep her face composed, yet that accursed ‘comportment’ refused to break. Any moment now, she’d probably try to give some speech about the ‘evils of peasant rebellion’. Best to end it as soon as possible.
Gunther pulled the trigger and the blade dropped straight down, connecting with the block with a thud. Such was the speed of the blow, that for a moment, Annalise za Becketts’ head remained in place, the blade seeming like a strange metal collar. Then it rolled down the sloped platform, trailing blood as it did, dropping into the basket. The decapitated torso gave a single convulsion, straining against the strap, hands twitching, before going slack. Gunther put his hand into the wicker receptacle and withdrew the bloody trophy, gripping it by the powdered locks now stained red by blood. The young woman’s face had gone pale as the blood left it, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. The crowd cheered in celebration as yet another aristocrat paid the due for their arrogance. Gunther gave the customary cry.
“Behold the head of a traitor!”
The crowd cheered even louder, appreciating the inherent mockery in using the phase so beloved of the tyrannical royalists. How many noble, patriotic souls had been brutally murdered by the Emperor’s lackeys, their heads mounted on pikes to dissuade further rebellion? Now, it was the aristocrats’ turn to be displayed on gibbets.
The next prisoner was called. Maria za Beckett, for conspiring to violate the people’s justice. The girl climbed the steps, her face streaked with tears, her dress green with simple embroidery. She was perhaps a year or two younger than the sister who had just been dispatched, her hair less powdered, with brunette colouring showing. At the sight of the block, now freshly stained by the blood of her kin, she began to struggle. Gunther’s assistants took hold of the wench’s shoulders and practically wrestled her to the device as she pleaded.
“No, please, I beg you, don’t cut off my head, please, I won’t do it again, please..”
Once more the condemned was pressed to their knees, the straps went on, the blade fell. Gunther felt his blood begin to stir once more. He had been beginning to find the process of the execution boring, given how meekly the elder za Beckett has submitted to the blade. But her sister’s loss of composure had definitely made up for it. The eyes of the severed head were half-lidded, blood still tripping from the stump as he paraded it round the scaffold. The jaw was firmly closed, unusual given that the aristo wench had been begging for mercy up until the moment the blade fell. As he deposited the head in the larger basket, the Clerk of the Electorate continued to read from his list.
-/-
Her eyes closed, Elise remained turned away from the scaffold. After the Baron za Golne, she had not been able to bear witnessing any more executions. The blood, the fear… she had heard how Maria za Beckett had begged and struggled for the slightest chance at life. How many more would die before she at last met her fate? Would she die bravely, or weeping and pissing herself? Before the revolution, before today, she would have said that any member of the exalted classes would meet their end with dignity and composure. But now, she could only see how the low-bred revolutionaries had stripped them of even that. What had she done to deserve this, this… degradation, other than be born into the wrong family at the wrong time? That degenerate Clerk was speaking again, naming the next in the lottery of death.
“The Duke zi Uttlan, for stealing the wealth of the people, and fomenting treason.”
Elise could not help but think of the truth behind such spurious charges. From what she had overheard in the condemned cell, the Duke had taken what wealth of his he could collect, as well as a portion of the royal treasury he had access to through his role at court, the moment revolution had broken out. Apparently, he had meant to escape the country and use it to fund a royalist army. But he and his family had been captured, and since they had been found with the ‘Rightful Property of The People’, all had been condemned.
Over the roar of the crowd, Elise heard the condemned nobleman mount the scaffold. A short, muffled speech, interrupted by calls from the mob to ‘get it over with’, followed by sounds of a brief struggle and the thud of the axt claiming its latest victim. Then, naturally, the names of the Dukes’ daughters were called.
“Margrete zi Uttlan, for treason against the Electorate”
Elise turned at that, steeling her nerves in the hope of lending the girl some courage. The mob would not strip her of all her dignity! Elise za Brovet would face death with unyielding rage against this injustice. She watched as the middle child of the zi Uttlan girls stumbled up the steps, clearly dazed by her impending death. The sound of whimpering as she beheld the block cut into Elise’s heart like shards of glass, but she refused to yield her regained composure. As always, the blade fell with alacrity and the headless torso shuddered for a moment. The vile, gloating executioner lifted up his prize and Elise saw the girls’ fine young features were calm in death, no sign of the violence of her end save for the blood coating her lower jaw and chin.
The body was untied and tossed into the waiting cart and the Clerk called another name.
“Theresa zi Uttlan, for treason against the Electorate”
The youngest of the three girls shrieked and wailed as the guards dragged her to the scaffold. Her golden locks, previously arranged in the tate zi mautan style, was now in disarray. Elise hoped, for Theresa’s sake, that it did not impede the blade. Once again, the mob jeered, enjoying the sight of a noble-bred girl about to meet a gruesome end. The assistants grabbed her arms, marching her forward to the raised blade, forcing her down until her neck rested against the block. Elise saw the executioner reach for the trigger, and pull down violently. Down came the blade, and Theresa’s struggling abruptly stopped. Elise turned away once more, but not before seeing a glimpse of the executioner brandishing the teenaged noble’s head by its blonde tresses.
The eldest zi Uttlan sister, Sofia, was called at last, condemned for the same crime as her sisters. As she strode up the steps, Elise was unsure how much more she could stand. The shouting of the crowd, the smell of blood, there seemed to be no end to the madness. She remained where she stood, watching yet another young woman, her whole life before her, prepare to be decapitated in the name of peasant resentment. All that she, her sisters, Elise herself, and the other young aristocrats who had died today, could have been was destroyed. The marriages they would have made, the balls they would have attended, the children they would have raised to rule this land after them. The blade fell. Another head was shown to the crowd, only to be tossed into the basket immediately afterwards. Elise closed her eyes.
Great Beasts, in all your infinite wisdom, tell me, why did this come to pass?
Gunther ran a whetstone along the edge of the blade. These multiple chops were a waste of time. The whole point of using the axt was to ensure the aristo’s were dispatched in rapid succession, without any of the fanfare they believed was their due. And besides, their suffering was slightly disturbing… Gunther checked himself. Expressing sympathy for the enemies of the people was treason, deserving of nothing but death. He returned the whetstone to his pocket, as the Clerk read out the next name on his list.
“Annalise za Beckett, for attempting to deny the justice of the people.”
The noblewoman in question, her rather plain gown contrasting with the powdered curls arranged in rows atop her head, was dragged forward by the guards. As she was hauled up the steps, Gunther saw her turn back to look at a similar-looking young woman who stood trembling with the rest of the condemned.
“Fear not sister, for soon we shall sit with our noble prince Adolfnus, and witness the Great Beasts’ vengeance against these traitors.”
The woman, barely more than a girl like her sister, nodded as tears streamed down her face. The older Lady za Beckett turned her gaze back to the blade that towered over her, and gulped. The guards tightened their grip, and pushed her forward.
As Hans and the other assistant took hold of the prisoner and forced her to kneel, Gunther felt satisfaction in executing this particular traitor. This wench and her sister had attempted to release that petulant child of a Crown Prince from his cell, indulging some childish fantasy of heroically serving their ‘noble lord’. They’d been disguised as washerwomen, of all things! The guards had seen right through it immediately, but the stupid bastards had failed to apprehend them. If the aristo whores hadn’t tried to flee the country, planning a detour to intercept the cart carrying the prince and his sister to their scheduled execution and make a grand escape, Gunther believed they might have got away with it. Luckily, their ‘safehouse’ was not so safe. Faced with twenty musket-carrying Guards of the People, the noblebred traitors had surrendered to their fate. Of course, with the sheer number of nobles and other traitors who needed to be brought to justice, their execution had been delayed for almost a month. But now, at last, the two would-be heroes would be dealt with.
“Lie flat, girl. If you hold still, it’ll be nice and clean”
Yet again, Hans was treating the traitors with more kindness than they deserved. Gunther was growing more and more convinced that he needed to report his assistant for Royalist sympathies. The noblewoman was struggling to keep her face composed, yet that accursed ‘comportment’ refused to break. Any moment now, she’d probably try to give some speech about the ‘evils of peasant rebellion’. Best to end it as soon as possible.
Gunther pulled the trigger and the blade dropped straight down, connecting with the block with a thud. Such was the speed of the blow, that for a moment, Annalise za Becketts’ head remained in place, the blade seeming like a strange metal collar. Then it rolled down the sloped platform, trailing blood as it did, dropping into the basket. The decapitated torso gave a single convulsion, straining against the strap, hands twitching, before going slack. Gunther put his hand into the wicker receptacle and withdrew the bloody trophy, gripping it by the powdered locks now stained red by blood. The young woman’s face had gone pale as the blood left it, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. The crowd cheered in celebration as yet another aristocrat paid the due for their arrogance. Gunther gave the customary cry.
“Behold the head of a traitor!”
The crowd cheered even louder, appreciating the inherent mockery in using the phase so beloved of the tyrannical royalists. How many noble, patriotic souls had been brutally murdered by the Emperor’s lackeys, their heads mounted on pikes to dissuade further rebellion? Now, it was the aristocrats’ turn to be displayed on gibbets.
The next prisoner was called. Maria za Beckett, for conspiring to violate the people’s justice. The girl climbed the steps, her face streaked with tears, her dress green with simple embroidery. She was perhaps a year or two younger than the sister who had just been dispatched, her hair less powdered, with brunette colouring showing. At the sight of the block, now freshly stained by the blood of her kin, she began to struggle. Gunther’s assistants took hold of the wench’s shoulders and practically wrestled her to the device as she pleaded.
“No, please, I beg you, don’t cut off my head, please, I won’t do it again, please..”
Once more the condemned was pressed to their knees, the straps went on, the blade fell. Gunther felt his blood begin to stir once more. He had been beginning to find the process of the execution boring, given how meekly the elder za Beckett has submitted to the blade. But her sister’s loss of composure had definitely made up for it. The eyes of the severed head were half-lidded, blood still tripping from the stump as he paraded it round the scaffold. The jaw was firmly closed, unusual given that the aristo wench had been begging for mercy up until the moment the blade fell. As he deposited the head in the larger basket, the Clerk of the Electorate continued to read from his list.
-/-
Her eyes closed, Elise remained turned away from the scaffold. After the Baron za Golne, she had not been able to bear witnessing any more executions. The blood, the fear… she had heard how Maria za Beckett had begged and struggled for the slightest chance at life. How many more would die before she at last met her fate? Would she die bravely, or weeping and pissing herself? Before the revolution, before today, she would have said that any member of the exalted classes would meet their end with dignity and composure. But now, she could only see how the low-bred revolutionaries had stripped them of even that. What had she done to deserve this, this… degradation, other than be born into the wrong family at the wrong time? That degenerate Clerk was speaking again, naming the next in the lottery of death.
“The Duke zi Uttlan, for stealing the wealth of the people, and fomenting treason.”
Elise could not help but think of the truth behind such spurious charges. From what she had overheard in the condemned cell, the Duke had taken what wealth of his he could collect, as well as a portion of the royal treasury he had access to through his role at court, the moment revolution had broken out. Apparently, he had meant to escape the country and use it to fund a royalist army. But he and his family had been captured, and since they had been found with the ‘Rightful Property of The People’, all had been condemned.
Over the roar of the crowd, Elise heard the condemned nobleman mount the scaffold. A short, muffled speech, interrupted by calls from the mob to ‘get it over with’, followed by sounds of a brief struggle and the thud of the axt claiming its latest victim. Then, naturally, the names of the Dukes’ daughters were called.
“Margrete zi Uttlan, for treason against the Electorate”
Elise turned at that, steeling her nerves in the hope of lending the girl some courage. The mob would not strip her of all her dignity! Elise za Brovet would face death with unyielding rage against this injustice. She watched as the middle child of the zi Uttlan girls stumbled up the steps, clearly dazed by her impending death. The sound of whimpering as she beheld the block cut into Elise’s heart like shards of glass, but she refused to yield her regained composure. As always, the blade fell with alacrity and the headless torso shuddered for a moment. The vile, gloating executioner lifted up his prize and Elise saw the girls’ fine young features were calm in death, no sign of the violence of her end save for the blood coating her lower jaw and chin.
The body was untied and tossed into the waiting cart and the Clerk called another name.
“Theresa zi Uttlan, for treason against the Electorate”
The youngest of the three girls shrieked and wailed as the guards dragged her to the scaffold. Her golden locks, previously arranged in the tate zi mautan style, was now in disarray. Elise hoped, for Theresa’s sake, that it did not impede the blade. Once again, the mob jeered, enjoying the sight of a noble-bred girl about to meet a gruesome end. The assistants grabbed her arms, marching her forward to the raised blade, forcing her down until her neck rested against the block. Elise saw the executioner reach for the trigger, and pull down violently. Down came the blade, and Theresa’s struggling abruptly stopped. Elise turned away once more, but not before seeing a glimpse of the executioner brandishing the teenaged noble’s head by its blonde tresses.
The eldest zi Uttlan sister, Sofia, was called at last, condemned for the same crime as her sisters. As she strode up the steps, Elise was unsure how much more she could stand. The shouting of the crowd, the smell of blood, there seemed to be no end to the madness. She remained where she stood, watching yet another young woman, her whole life before her, prepare to be decapitated in the name of peasant resentment. All that she, her sisters, Elise herself, and the other young aristocrats who had died today, could have been was destroyed. The marriages they would have made, the balls they would have attended, the children they would have raised to rule this land after them. The blade fell. Another head was shown to the crowd, only to be tossed into the basket immediately afterwards. Elise closed her eyes.
Great Beasts, in all your infinite wisdom, tell me, why did this come to pass?
Part 6
As the crowd roared once more, calling for yet more bloodshed, the Clerk called out the name of the next victim.
“Maria zi Folnige, for supporting the corruption of the Temple, and enforcing the reliance of the people on immoral institutions.”
Elise felt her blood begin to boil. It was utterly and completely ridiculous that making charitable donations to the Temple of the Great Beasts was to be a crime. Once the money was given, was it not the right of the priesthood to decide how it might be best spent? It was natural to trust the holy and reverent servants of the divine to know what was best. And to suggest that giving alms directly to the unfortunate created some form of dependency, well, was it not best that the poor souls receive some form of support, rather than none?
She watched as the doomed noblewoman, in her mid-twenties with a modest gown and her hair bound in a linen cap, was dragged from the small group of remaining prisoners. Maria zi Folnige struggled desperately against the hands gripping her shoulders, but to no avail, reaching the steps of the scaffold and being shoved up to meet her fate. Elise saw the woman’s shoulders shaking as the executioners’ assistants took hold of her and pressed her down until the lady zi Folnige was kneeling on the wood of the scaffold. The executioner finished hoisting up the blade, and the assistants began the task of securing their victim in place.
-/-
The trembling aristocrat whimpered as her neck touched the bloodstained wood of the axt, her chin held away from the indentation intended to keep her head in place. Gunther sneered. Typical noble, flinching from blood while profiting from the suffering of others. He put his hand to the back of the womans’ head and forced it down, tilting the head until it rested in the blood-drenched divot. The aristo started sobbing, eyes clenched shut as her whimpering became audible to the crowd.
Gunther placed his hand upon the lever, ready to release the blade and send another traitor to face the judgement of the Great Beasts. He looked back at the stairs leading up to the scaffold, trying to judge how many more decadent leeches awaited execution. He counted about eleven prisoners standing at the bottom of the steps, either staring in horror or looking down at the ground, as if desperately ignoring their impending fate. How many more of these parasites had to be butchered before the enemies of the revolution were defeated? How many until the stain of aristocracy was eradicated?
The crowd roared and Gunther turned his gaze to them. Over a hundred of the downtrodden and oppressed, their rage against the ‘high-born’ finally given an outlet. Centuries of accumulated pain and suffering now turned against the parasites who had drained the life from this nation. And ensuring that justice was done was worth any number of lives! The noblewoman currently beneath the blade was whispering pleas for mercy under her breath.
“Please. No, don’t, please… I beg you… please, don’t…”
Wretched aristo. With a tug of the lever, the block of wood with its iron blade fell, flashing down between the uprights like a bolt of lightning. It struck the flesh of the noblewomans’ neck and blood sprayed. The bound hands jerked upwards as the torso convulsed against the leather straps. The severed head, its’ linen cap now spotted with crimson, tumbled down the ramp and landed in the basket. The crowd roared once more.
-/-
As the ramble of vulgar peasants cheered the death of yet another of their betters, Elise shuddered in horror. How much longer did she have until her own name was called? Looking up, she saw the head of Maria zi Folnige being displayed to the crowd. The dead eyes were half-lidded, the lips slightly parted. Blood still dripping from the red stump, the executioner dropped it into the larger basket, to join the heads of the preceding victims. The clerk read out the next name on his list.
“The Praetor za Takale, for oppressing the people and failure to resist tyranny.”
Her eyes returning to the ground, Elise heard the named man be dragged forward, marched up the scaffold and made to kneel. The crowd jeered, the blade thudded down, the mob roared. Elise kept her eyes averted, not wanting to see yet another bloody head dangled by its’ hair for the peasants to laugh at.
The clerk spoke again.
“The Baron za Voke, for theft from the people.”
Yet again, she heard the guards drag away one of her fellow prisoners. Yet again, the rabble mocked and jeered, as another of their rightful masters met a bloody death. More cries of ‘Death to the Nobles!’ and ‘Long live the Electorate!’, the deranged exhortations of traitors and thieves.
“Elise za Brovet, for supporting theft from the people.”
What? Had her name just been… was it now time? Time to meet her death?
Two guards, traitors from the 21st Grucharfen regiment by the uniforms, stepped forward as one. Elise stood there numbly, as the soldiers seized her arms and pulled her forward. Taking slow, hesitant steps, she was practically hauled towards the scaffold. She could not even find it in herself to struggle. What would be the point? She was surrounded by both soldiers and a mob of rebels and peasants, who would tear her apart if she attempted to escape. Her fate was inevitable, the conclusion to her life unavoidable. With a final tug on her arms, the guards brought her to the foot of the scaffold. Elise could her the crowd calling for her blood, the sound of the blade returning to the top of the uprights. She trembled, tears beginning to form in her eyes.
What was she doing?
Was she not a lady of rank, the daughter of a noble line that traced its descent to the last appearance of the Great Beasts? She would not allow these filthy peasants and traitors to strip her of her dignity! She, Elise za Brovet, daughter of the thirteenth Lord Grandee za Brovet, would meet her fate tall and proud, spitting in the eye of these murderous ‘revolutionaries’. Pulling herself to her full height, quashing her tears through sheer will, she placed her foot upon the first step.
-/-
The howling crowd of enraged peasants watched as a tall girl in her late teens appeared on the scaffold, hands tied behind her back. The young woman was clearly of aristocratic birth, with a teal dress of relative simplicity, the sort noblewomen wore around the house when not engaged in rampant hedonism. Her blonde hair was arranged into the mass of condensed curls so loved by the indolent upper classes. Unlike many traitors executed that day, the high-born wench did not weep or tremble, instead standing tall with all the condescending arrogance of her breed. It was as if she was daring them to harm her. The calls sounded from the mob, as they always did when faced with these vestiges of pompous dignity.
“Aristo whore!”
“Traitor!”
“Child-murdering bitch!”
Soon enough, the executioners forced the noblewoman to her knees, though it seemed as if the wench was complying a little too readily. A hand to the middle of her back, and the condemned girls’ chest was lowered onto the platform.
-/-
Kneeling of her own accord, Elise was shoved forward by one of the executioners’ murderous accomplices. As her face lowered, she truly noticed the bloodstained wood of the block. How many unfortunates had perished upon it already, guiltless nobility who had merely been born into the role the Great Beasts had chosen for them? Her upper chest met the wood of the platform and immediately the leather straps went across her back. There was a slight squelch as Elise placed her chin in the indentation carved into the block for that purpose, the blood of those before her staining her neck, lower jaw, and the collar of her dress. Looking down, she could see the short ramp leading to the lip of a basket.
So that is where my head shall rest, she thought.
The crowd roared, calling for the executioner to get on with it. Elise heard a clunk and …
-/-
To the crowd, the blade of the fallende axt fell nearly too fast to see. Already coated in the blood of the condemned, the red streak lanced downward. As it struck, those to the side of the scaffold saw the womans’ body shudder as crimson spattered the upper third of her teal dress. Those watching from the front saw a round object of blonde and red roll down the sloped wood above the basket.
-/-
Pain, deep and terrible, no feeling below her chin. She was falling, the view before her eyes whirling round and round, no feeling below the neck, wood under cheek nose ear back of head, round and round, then a drop. She was in a dark place, knotted woven wood under cheek, wicker. A grip on her hair, lifting up, did not hurt as much as it should. Vision blurring.
-/-
The head of the aristo traitor was lifted from the basket and the crowd applauded. The coiffured blonde hair was now more than a little dishevelled, strands having come loose while tumbling away from the spasming body. The mouth hung open as if in shock, the eyes fluttering open and closed. With a flourish, the executioner paraded it around the scaffold.
-/-
Vision was blurring even more, view shifting second by second. A crowd of people, shouting, so loud. A large basket, pale faces staring up, blotted with red. A voice, “Katerina zi Gotilan, for oppression of the people”, a young girl wailing. Falling, hitting soft meaty surface, cheek resting against cold flesh.
/
-
/
-
/
Elise jolted to consciousness, still experiencing a sensation of falling. She was lying naked on what looked like red-purple grass. Above her, a sky of yellow and lilac streaked with ocean blue, with stars that glowed a brilliant green. There were three glowing circles above her, like suns or moons. It struck her then.
This was Sur’laden. The realm of the Great Beasts, the paradise that awaited the righteous and faithful. She was dead. Dead.
Mixed horror and joy filled her. She had been right! The Great Beasts had smiled upon her and all the rightful rulers of Nichtargen, rewarding them with eternal bliss and…
The pain hit her. Rolling over, she vomited up black and green slime. Stumbling to her feet, she looked down at her body, feeling all over. The young flesh of the back of her thighs and shoulders were covered in bruises, and her left arm felt much as she imagined it would if it was broken. How could this be? She was in the realm of eternal delight, how could she be experiencing pain? Elise took in her surroundings.
She was on a hill, sloping down towards a forest of grey and blue trees. On the grass around her, naked figures lay or knelt, some already standing. She averted her gaze, trying to cover her modesty as best she could without clothes. Still, Elise thought she recognised some of the people as those who had preceded her under the blade. A streak of purple light struck from the sky like lightning, hitting the hillside about a dozen paces downhill from her, the ground rippling like water. When Elise looked again, there was a teenaged girl lying there, naked as they all were. Katerina zi Gotilan, Elise realised. She’d heard the name spoken recently, but where…
A loud crashing sound came from the forest of strange trees. As Elise stared, a deer nearly a hundred feet tall at the shoulder reared up over the blue leaves. Except deer did not have four eyes, or six legs. Or antlers that seemed made of ruby and fur like millions of icicles. Was this one of the Great Beasts? She didn’t recognise it from the scriptures, but what else could it be? She stumbled forward of shaking legs, still disconcerted by her nakedness. Suddenly, a shadow fell over her and the deer-creature turned and shrank back into the trees. Elise turned around. Hanging in the sky above her was a shape of gold and white. Two eyes of sapphire the size of carriages stared down at her from an arrow-head skull. Four wings of gold laced with onyx and silver were unfurled around it, like the sails of some vast ship. Each could have covered an entire district of the capital, covered not in feathers but in some kind of hide. Elise knew what this was immediately.
Matatho the Ever Merciful. One of the highest of the Great Beasts. She fell to her knees in awe at the sight before her. Then the voice came.
WELL, THIS IS AWKWARD.
It must have been Elise’s’ imagination, but the divine being looked almost, well, sheepish.
I IMAGINE YOU HAVE QUESTIONS….
As the crowd roared once more, calling for yet more bloodshed, the Clerk called out the name of the next victim.
“Maria zi Folnige, for supporting the corruption of the Temple, and enforcing the reliance of the people on immoral institutions.”
Elise felt her blood begin to boil. It was utterly and completely ridiculous that making charitable donations to the Temple of the Great Beasts was to be a crime. Once the money was given, was it not the right of the priesthood to decide how it might be best spent? It was natural to trust the holy and reverent servants of the divine to know what was best. And to suggest that giving alms directly to the unfortunate created some form of dependency, well, was it not best that the poor souls receive some form of support, rather than none?
She watched as the doomed noblewoman, in her mid-twenties with a modest gown and her hair bound in a linen cap, was dragged from the small group of remaining prisoners. Maria zi Folnige struggled desperately against the hands gripping her shoulders, but to no avail, reaching the steps of the scaffold and being shoved up to meet her fate. Elise saw the woman’s shoulders shaking as the executioners’ assistants took hold of her and pressed her down until the lady zi Folnige was kneeling on the wood of the scaffold. The executioner finished hoisting up the blade, and the assistants began the task of securing their victim in place.
-/-
The trembling aristocrat whimpered as her neck touched the bloodstained wood of the axt, her chin held away from the indentation intended to keep her head in place. Gunther sneered. Typical noble, flinching from blood while profiting from the suffering of others. He put his hand to the back of the womans’ head and forced it down, tilting the head until it rested in the blood-drenched divot. The aristo started sobbing, eyes clenched shut as her whimpering became audible to the crowd.
Gunther placed his hand upon the lever, ready to release the blade and send another traitor to face the judgement of the Great Beasts. He looked back at the stairs leading up to the scaffold, trying to judge how many more decadent leeches awaited execution. He counted about eleven prisoners standing at the bottom of the steps, either staring in horror or looking down at the ground, as if desperately ignoring their impending fate. How many more of these parasites had to be butchered before the enemies of the revolution were defeated? How many until the stain of aristocracy was eradicated?
The crowd roared and Gunther turned his gaze to them. Over a hundred of the downtrodden and oppressed, their rage against the ‘high-born’ finally given an outlet. Centuries of accumulated pain and suffering now turned against the parasites who had drained the life from this nation. And ensuring that justice was done was worth any number of lives! The noblewoman currently beneath the blade was whispering pleas for mercy under her breath.
“Please. No, don’t, please… I beg you… please, don’t…”
Wretched aristo. With a tug of the lever, the block of wood with its iron blade fell, flashing down between the uprights like a bolt of lightning. It struck the flesh of the noblewomans’ neck and blood sprayed. The bound hands jerked upwards as the torso convulsed against the leather straps. The severed head, its’ linen cap now spotted with crimson, tumbled down the ramp and landed in the basket. The crowd roared once more.
-/-
As the ramble of vulgar peasants cheered the death of yet another of their betters, Elise shuddered in horror. How much longer did she have until her own name was called? Looking up, she saw the head of Maria zi Folnige being displayed to the crowd. The dead eyes were half-lidded, the lips slightly parted. Blood still dripping from the red stump, the executioner dropped it into the larger basket, to join the heads of the preceding victims. The clerk read out the next name on his list.
“The Praetor za Takale, for oppressing the people and failure to resist tyranny.”
Her eyes returning to the ground, Elise heard the named man be dragged forward, marched up the scaffold and made to kneel. The crowd jeered, the blade thudded down, the mob roared. Elise kept her eyes averted, not wanting to see yet another bloody head dangled by its’ hair for the peasants to laugh at.
The clerk spoke again.
“The Baron za Voke, for theft from the people.”
Yet again, she heard the guards drag away one of her fellow prisoners. Yet again, the rabble mocked and jeered, as another of their rightful masters met a bloody death. More cries of ‘Death to the Nobles!’ and ‘Long live the Electorate!’, the deranged exhortations of traitors and thieves.
“Elise za Brovet, for supporting theft from the people.”
What? Had her name just been… was it now time? Time to meet her death?
Two guards, traitors from the 21st Grucharfen regiment by the uniforms, stepped forward as one. Elise stood there numbly, as the soldiers seized her arms and pulled her forward. Taking slow, hesitant steps, she was practically hauled towards the scaffold. She could not even find it in herself to struggle. What would be the point? She was surrounded by both soldiers and a mob of rebels and peasants, who would tear her apart if she attempted to escape. Her fate was inevitable, the conclusion to her life unavoidable. With a final tug on her arms, the guards brought her to the foot of the scaffold. Elise could her the crowd calling for her blood, the sound of the blade returning to the top of the uprights. She trembled, tears beginning to form in her eyes.
What was she doing?
Was she not a lady of rank, the daughter of a noble line that traced its descent to the last appearance of the Great Beasts? She would not allow these filthy peasants and traitors to strip her of her dignity! She, Elise za Brovet, daughter of the thirteenth Lord Grandee za Brovet, would meet her fate tall and proud, spitting in the eye of these murderous ‘revolutionaries’. Pulling herself to her full height, quashing her tears through sheer will, she placed her foot upon the first step.
-/-
The howling crowd of enraged peasants watched as a tall girl in her late teens appeared on the scaffold, hands tied behind her back. The young woman was clearly of aristocratic birth, with a teal dress of relative simplicity, the sort noblewomen wore around the house when not engaged in rampant hedonism. Her blonde hair was arranged into the mass of condensed curls so loved by the indolent upper classes. Unlike many traitors executed that day, the high-born wench did not weep or tremble, instead standing tall with all the condescending arrogance of her breed. It was as if she was daring them to harm her. The calls sounded from the mob, as they always did when faced with these vestiges of pompous dignity.
“Aristo whore!”
“Traitor!”
“Child-murdering bitch!”
Soon enough, the executioners forced the noblewoman to her knees, though it seemed as if the wench was complying a little too readily. A hand to the middle of her back, and the condemned girls’ chest was lowered onto the platform.
-/-
Kneeling of her own accord, Elise was shoved forward by one of the executioners’ murderous accomplices. As her face lowered, she truly noticed the bloodstained wood of the block. How many unfortunates had perished upon it already, guiltless nobility who had merely been born into the role the Great Beasts had chosen for them? Her upper chest met the wood of the platform and immediately the leather straps went across her back. There was a slight squelch as Elise placed her chin in the indentation carved into the block for that purpose, the blood of those before her staining her neck, lower jaw, and the collar of her dress. Looking down, she could see the short ramp leading to the lip of a basket.
So that is where my head shall rest, she thought.
The crowd roared, calling for the executioner to get on with it. Elise heard a clunk and …
-/-
To the crowd, the blade of the fallende axt fell nearly too fast to see. Already coated in the blood of the condemned, the red streak lanced downward. As it struck, those to the side of the scaffold saw the womans’ body shudder as crimson spattered the upper third of her teal dress. Those watching from the front saw a round object of blonde and red roll down the sloped wood above the basket.
-/-
Pain, deep and terrible, no feeling below her chin. She was falling, the view before her eyes whirling round and round, no feeling below the neck, wood under cheek nose ear back of head, round and round, then a drop. She was in a dark place, knotted woven wood under cheek, wicker. A grip on her hair, lifting up, did not hurt as much as it should. Vision blurring.
-/-
The head of the aristo traitor was lifted from the basket and the crowd applauded. The coiffured blonde hair was now more than a little dishevelled, strands having come loose while tumbling away from the spasming body. The mouth hung open as if in shock, the eyes fluttering open and closed. With a flourish, the executioner paraded it around the scaffold.
-/-
Vision was blurring even more, view shifting second by second. A crowd of people, shouting, so loud. A large basket, pale faces staring up, blotted with red. A voice, “Katerina zi Gotilan, for oppression of the people”, a young girl wailing. Falling, hitting soft meaty surface, cheek resting against cold flesh.
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Elise jolted to consciousness, still experiencing a sensation of falling. She was lying naked on what looked like red-purple grass. Above her, a sky of yellow and lilac streaked with ocean blue, with stars that glowed a brilliant green. There were three glowing circles above her, like suns or moons. It struck her then.
This was Sur’laden. The realm of the Great Beasts, the paradise that awaited the righteous and faithful. She was dead. Dead.
Mixed horror and joy filled her. She had been right! The Great Beasts had smiled upon her and all the rightful rulers of Nichtargen, rewarding them with eternal bliss and…
The pain hit her. Rolling over, she vomited up black and green slime. Stumbling to her feet, she looked down at her body, feeling all over. The young flesh of the back of her thighs and shoulders were covered in bruises, and her left arm felt much as she imagined it would if it was broken. How could this be? She was in the realm of eternal delight, how could she be experiencing pain? Elise took in her surroundings.
She was on a hill, sloping down towards a forest of grey and blue trees. On the grass around her, naked figures lay or knelt, some already standing. She averted her gaze, trying to cover her modesty as best she could without clothes. Still, Elise thought she recognised some of the people as those who had preceded her under the blade. A streak of purple light struck from the sky like lightning, hitting the hillside about a dozen paces downhill from her, the ground rippling like water. When Elise looked again, there was a teenaged girl lying there, naked as they all were. Katerina zi Gotilan, Elise realised. She’d heard the name spoken recently, but where…
A loud crashing sound came from the forest of strange trees. As Elise stared, a deer nearly a hundred feet tall at the shoulder reared up over the blue leaves. Except deer did not have four eyes, or six legs. Or antlers that seemed made of ruby and fur like millions of icicles. Was this one of the Great Beasts? She didn’t recognise it from the scriptures, but what else could it be? She stumbled forward of shaking legs, still disconcerted by her nakedness. Suddenly, a shadow fell over her and the deer-creature turned and shrank back into the trees. Elise turned around. Hanging in the sky above her was a shape of gold and white. Two eyes of sapphire the size of carriages stared down at her from an arrow-head skull. Four wings of gold laced with onyx and silver were unfurled around it, like the sails of some vast ship. Each could have covered an entire district of the capital, covered not in feathers but in some kind of hide. Elise knew what this was immediately.
Matatho the Ever Merciful. One of the highest of the Great Beasts. She fell to her knees in awe at the sight before her. Then the voice came.
WELL, THIS IS AWKWARD.
It must have been Elise’s’ imagination, but the divine being looked almost, well, sheepish.
I IMAGINE YOU HAVE QUESTIONS….
This series (and the rest of your works) are easily the most compelling stories i´ve ever read, and not only for fetish/fantasy related reasons. You are very talented, congratulatios and thanks for sharing your writings with us!
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Forum > Public / Stories > Days of Revolution: Issue 2, to be released in instalments.