Discworld and Member Articles
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Written by TheJackal
Tuesday, 30 August 2005 |
And then it was time.
Drums began a slow, loud, steady beat. The crowd roared. Others screamed. Those not roaring or screaming like possessed idiots, threw things, generally having a good time of it.
Ted Grimshaw, joint Head Executioner for the day, stepped forward and stopped at the front of the podium. Grimshaw was covered from head to toe in black, with a mask on his head and cradled a huge double-sided axe in his two hands. He carefully placed the axe down by the side of his right foot, for it was heavy and he wasn’t getting any younger.
‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.’
At that exact moment, the Gods being old softies for dramatic timing, it began to rain like there would be no tomorrow and the clouds were taking the opportunity to go out with a flourish.
The rain was surprising. Not just its heaviness, but also its sudden appearance in the first place. Up until then, a downfall had not actually threatened. Admittedly, a mild argument was taking place between the rain Gods and whomever it was they were agitated with today.
But it seemed that the rain Gods were fed up with lengthy negotiations and taken pre-emptive action. The unions would be bound to come down on them like a ton of bricks for an unsanctioned downburst.
Old Grimshaw was having none of it. He was not going to let meteorological event impede on his big moment.
‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. TODAY YOU SHALL WITNNES THE BEHEADING OF THESE TWO MEN’
Grimshaw pointed at Nemoy and Polix who were a few steps behind him.
‘BROTHER POLIX HAS, BY HIS OWN ADMISSION, FAILED HIS SWORN DUTY AS A MEDIATOR.’
A chorus of boos rose up from the mob of onlookers.
‘AND ON MY LEFT,’ said Grimshaw getting into his stride, ‘WE HAVE THE ROGUE, JONAH NEMOY.’
The crowd roared some more. None had ever previously seen a Rogue. It was a once in a lifetime event. Funnily enough, he looked normal. Perhaps he was lacking some basic bodily hygiene, yet this close up, he did not seem to be monster that people had made him out to be.
A Rogue could do terrible things, so they had been told. This guy looked like the worst he could do was sweat on you.
Old Grimshaw spoke some more about why the men were to be put to death. The crowd responded in kind with more noise. With his speech concluded (all too soon in Grimshaw’s opinion), he walked over to the two men.
‘Okay lads. This is it. I’d like you to meet my colleague, Mr. Froop. He shall be seeing to Mr. Nemoy and I shall be in charge of your beheading, Mr. Maybury.’
‘How come you wear those black masks over your heads if you tell people your names anyway? I thought the whole point was that nobody should know who you are?’ asked Polix looking at the two men.
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Grimshaw. ‘Not many people know who we are, and it doesn’t matter that I tell you because you’ll be dead!’
‘Ah, okay then. I see your point.’
‘Right, now that that’s cleared up, any last requests?’ asked Grimshaw.
‘Well,’ said Nemoy, ‘Now that you mention it, I’d prefer to go home. I’m quite attached to my head, you see.’
‘You’d be surprised by how many people say something like that. I’m afraid that letting you go is out of the question. The last request option is more of a traditional thing. Although, I can get you a bun or something?’
‘We don’t want a fecking bun,’ said Polix sternly.
‘Fair enough. Got anything you would like to say then?’ said Grimshaw looking in turn at each of the men.
‘Yeh, as a matter of fact, I do,’ said Nemoy. ‘Ye’re all bastards.’
‘I’m a man of God me,’ said Grimshaw, though he did not state which one, ‘but I’ll let that one go this time because I can tell that this is a challenging time for you.’
‘Oh that’s rich. I’m getting tips on etiquette from a man who kills people for a living,’ said Polix.
Grimshaw ignored Polix’s remark and stood forward again on the podium.
‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. IT IS TIME.’
This time the loudest cheer of all came from the crowd. There was a tremendous feeling of expectancy around the courtyard.
Both executioners raised their axes. The courtyard suddenly became deathly quite, with everyone awaiting the fatal blow.
It was then, just as both men were about to drop their weapons, that all hell broke loose.
Two arrows landed in both of the executioners’ chests. People screamed, this time in fear and alarm. Pandemonium was rampant.
In all the action, nobody in the crowd of onlookers had gazed up at where Master Rubeus had been sitting, on the left hand side of the podium, not five feet from Nemoy. If they had, then they would have been amazed at what took place:
Rubeus, astute as ever, had leapt from his seat immediately after the first arrows had landed. Only the second and third arrows had been aimed at the executioners; the first went for the Grand Master. It narrowly missed hitting him in the face and Rubeus felt a swish of air as the arrow whizzed past him.
Immediately after the attack had begun, Rubeus quickly moved behind the chair he had been sitting on, whose long back gave him some protection from the danger.
Rubeus peered cautiously around the side of his chair so as to see where the attack was coming from. Some twenty men had positioned themselves along the top of the walls which surrounded the courtyard. They had a perfect view of the area and it was a hundred yards or so to the nearest doorway.
Damn it, why had he been so stupid? He had totally forgotten about protecting himself in his eagerness to become immortal. After all, once the beheading had taken place he would be practically unstoppable.
Well, the mistake had been made now and Rubeus had to get on with the situation at hand. He already had a throwable dagger in each hand but the assassins were too far away to hit. Whoever had planned the attack had been clever alright. That pointed to someone high up in the Order.
Rubeus’ mind was racing now. He weighed up his options and decided that he had better run for it. He stood a good chance of escaping, as he was very fit for a man his age. Rubeus cursed himself once more for not having moved sooner because he could have used someone’s body as a shield, but everyone had moved too far away by now.
Master Rubeus took a deep breath. He scanned the horizon one last time. And then he was running; running for his life with arrows flying to his left, to his right, over him and even one straight through his legs.
The door way was eighty yards away now. Make that sixty…fifty.
An arrow finally struck. It hit slightly to the left centre of Rubeus’ back. Pain roared through his body. It was pain that Rubeus had never felt before in all of his many years. Yet, still Rubeus strode forward, step-by-step. He tried to block out the pain.
He was forty yards away now; could see the doorway clearly. His mind was totally focused on it.
Thud! A second arrow hit him in his right thigh. Rubeus fell. He immediately tried to stand up again but was knocked down once more by a third arrow. He did not get back up. He did not move.
People were still screaming. Many were still urgently trying to escape through the main gateway which had inevitably become jammed as hundreds pushed for freedom.
Amongst it all, Rubeus lay on the ground; only thirty-five yards or so from safety but thirty-five yards too far. A middle-aged assassin walked slowly towards the body. He had his bow loaded, ready just in case.
Tim (for that was his name) stood beside the Grand Master’s feet. He gave the man a kick. Nothing happened.
It was a complete mystery that anyone trained as an assassin could have lived to such an age as Tim had because one partaking in the assassin trade should never presume that his target was dead.
Tim stepped toward Rubeus’ head and turned the man over. In that instant many things happened at once: Rubeus’ left hand caught the bow and deflected Tim’s triggered arrow off above his right shoulder; Tim finally learned (all too late) that you should never presume a target is dead; and Rubeus cut a wide slit in Tim’s neck, causing a lot blood to pour out onto Rubeus himself and onto the ground.
And then Rubeus was up on his feet. He carried Tim’s body in front of him as a make shift shield. A few more arrows flew by. All were off the mark, except one which imbedded itself in Tim’s right buttock.
Rubeus was beginning to strain under the weight of the assassin but his grip held firm. Only yards separated him now from the doorway, which seemed to glisten in the day’s sunlight.
A final half a dozen strides and Rubeus was through the arch of the doorway. His assailants could do nothing but look on as he turned left down the corridor and out of view.
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