A Job To Do
When the crowd turns violent and the guards flee, there's one man who takes pride in his work. Even if that work is a little gruesome.
Photo by Marek Studzinski on Unsplash
Gresmire lifted the hem of the bag so it wouldn’t catch on the axe.
He’d seen it happen once, snagging as the executioner swung down. The audience got a view of a horrified face the moment the axe hit. That kind of thing angered a crowd.
Today’s crowd was angry enough, no need to make it worse.
Someone further along the platform was yelling at them, attempting to calm them.
They were past the point of soothing words and false promises.
The crowd kept shoving the wooden fences, guards trying to force them back.
One of them reached over the fence and swung at a guard who instinctively dodged and jabbed back with his spear.
That was the breaking point, the spark the crowd had waited for.
They surged forward, the fences snapping like kindling.
The guard was dragged away, swallowed by a sea of angry hands.
Gresmire sighed. The prisoner at his feet squirmed, no doubt listening to the chaos, hoping it meant escape.
Chance would be a fine thing, the lads’ feet were secured with a heavy chain.
He picked up his great sword, a hands-breadth wide and taller than most men.
He stepped forward and swung in a well-practised arc towards the crowd who swarmed the edge of the platform.
The heavy blade severed a hand, raked across a chest and ripped free a chunk of jaw.
He used the momentum to come around in another arc; back and forth, like a scythe through autumn barley.
The crowd recoiled momentarily, but they would easily overwhelm him if they surged again.
How did he end up like this, he wondered. He’d always wanted to be a poet.
The chaos was interrupted by an echoing horn and the crashing of hooves.
Finally, he thought, maybe this lot can do their job.
A wave of armoured riders swept forward, battering aside all those who had charged at the platform.
The mass of people cleared quickly under that brutal assault.
He stepped back to his position, sword painted a deep red.
The man who had been yelling at the crowd was gone, possibly pulled off the platform or cowering somewhere.
Gresmire didn’t care, he had a job to finish.
He raised his sword and brought it down, missing the hem of the bag. The head rolled off the platform landing in the scattered gore.
He sighed, content at having done his job well. He glanced at the dispersing crowd, after all someone here should.
