the face of death

"Will anyone invoke the Laws of Fein or Fyer?"

The shouter's voice echoes in the courtyard, resonating from cobbled house to white-knuckled grip to stone-set eyes until it finds its way upward, to the noonday sun beating down on hard-set shoulders.

The executioner stands motionless, gloved hands resting on the head of his axe. All eyes fix themselves on the armored form standing before the dais, ready to do his duty should the people allow it. Not a single soul is absent. Even the young and the sick are required to join an execution, because in the case of an invocation, all might be needed. The only sound in the courtyard is the ragged breathing of the soon-to-be corpse that kneels behind the one who will kill him.

No one invokes the sacrifice.

"Then by the laws of this land, by the will of this town, and by the justice of Death, the murderer shall die in Feinfall, and will know no more of this life."

The shouter's voice carries through the silence and the corpse sobs in despair. The people know he's guilty. That he murdered a neighbor for his money, and they have no mercy for him.

Dead wind hisses across the cobblestones, snaking through people's feet, cool and biting, like the whisper of vengeful spirits. The shouter's wife blinks rapidly, eyes slightly red, and a bead of sweat runs down her temple. The blacksmith's son shivers despite the heat, his little hands white-knuckling his father's large one, eyes fixed on the glinting axe blade. The silver-haired Apothecary slides her hands deep into the pockets of her robes, eyes wanting to turn but unable to leave the face of the man she condemned, the man they all condemned.

Two brothers lean into each other, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. The ring of stone gazes doesn't falter as the executioner runs a careful hand along his blade. A rat scuttles through a murky puddle and disappears around a corner. The shouter opens his mouth to speak again.

"Assume the Face of Death."

The executioner draws an object from his robes. It's wrapped in soft cloths that he reverently peels away to reveal a carved diamond mask. An ornate silver plate curves along it to form a helmet that he rests on his head. The glinting gem distorts his grim visage, leaving visible only eyes as dark as night.

His cloak rasps over the cobblestones like the breath of a ghost. Death turns to the murderer and the man cowers in terror.

The axe is raised.

The axe falls.

The head of the corpse rolls four times, and the people leave for home.

I am one of them.