The Dwarven Sorcerer

The Dwarven Sorcerer Ch 16

The crowd gathered in the square around the monstrous gallows that stood day and night like an unholy sentinel, a constant reminder of the power of the inquisition. In the dim light, the gallows looked like some kind of unnatural and deadly growth, a misshapen black cancer.

Ula Yorrisdottir tried to blend in with the crowd as much as possible. She didn't want to see the execution, that's not why she was there, that's not why any of them were there. The crowd was gathered to be seen by each other, to be seen by potential accusers, and, most importantly, to be seen by the inquisition. To not be seen at a public execution drew unwanted attention from neighbours, friends, or worse. It made the wrong dwarves ask the wrong questions.

She tried to stay on the edge of the crowd without looking like she was trying to stay on the edge of the crowd. She really didn't want to get too close to the execution, but she was pushed forward as others tried to stay near the edge as well. Ula unwillingly found herself standing in the front row, the gallows looming in front of her, its long twisted shadow reaching out to the crowd like skeletal fingers. The shadow was cold, the crowd was quiet.

It was a sombre occasion. None of the dwarves spoke; they stood in silence, the males with their hoods cast over their heads and their eyes down. She let out a long sigh and waited for the execution to start. She didn't want to look at the malformed thing that would soon be the centre of everyone's attention. The square was surrounded by inquisitors, her eyes wandered over their faces and stopped on a familiar one. Grundi was looking dourly at the crowd in the inquisitor's uniform. She felt cold with shock and then hot with anger with his stupidity.

There was a hushed gasp that was startlingly loud in the silence as the prisoner was led out. At first, the prisoner looked like any other, his hands were manacled in front and he wore a plain brown tunic, Ula had seen it too many times before; nothing unusual, then she saw it; she gasped. He had no beard. He had been shaved clean-faced to add to his shame and humiliation. No one deserves that, ain't right.

She felt anger and revulsion rising inside of her. She heard muffled whispers around her as the horror of what was seen hit the crowd, but they silenced themselves quickly, allowing normal dwarven stoicism to reestablish itself.

The prisoner was led to the centre of the square where he was made to kneel in front of the gallows. An inquisitor moved beside the kneeling dwarf.

"You have come to bear witness as justice is served," said the inquisitor, his voice booming and easily carrying over the large quiet crowd. "Grom, son of Olaf has been convicted of wizardry, a terrible crime, there is none worse. He has tainted himself, his family, and every one of you." He gestured to the crowd. "He has confessed to his crimes and will be purified through death. The dwarven race will grow stronger when the disease is removed. It is the will of the gods; may Wodin Allfather in his great wisdom watch over us and bless us."

That was all the ceremony needed, without any other words, Grom was led to the top of the gallows. A scarlet cloaked inquisitor stood at the ready, holding a noose for the execution. The prisoner was given a chance to speak, he chose not to. The executioner pulled a black hood over his head, then he pulled the noose tight around his head, ensuring that the large knot was placed right at the base of the neck.

When the executioner pulled the lever everything happened faster than Ula could see, only the sounds told the story.

The gears whirled, the rope twanged, and his neck cracked. He died instantly.

He knows his job. The morbid thought shocked her; she felt ashamed by it.

This wasn't the first execution Ula watched but the loudness of the sound of the neck-breaking always surprised her. Whirl, twang, crack. Those were the sounds of a dwarf dying. The crowd dispersed quickly and quietly, no one wanting to speak or to stick around any longer than necessary; they were seen, their duties were fulfilled.

She felt strange as she walked through the quiet streets, weirdly light-headed and nauseated. Seeing the beardless dwarf upset her to her core. There was no greater shame than losing a beard for any dwarf. Gods, she swore she could still hear the death of the dwarf, whirl, twang, crack echoed off of the stone wall around her.

Ain't no reason to shame him like that, she thought, her face flushed with anger.

Just yesterday they executed about a dozen men that surrendered after the last battle, and they were given full honours. They had died with weapons in their hands, blunted, aye, but weapons nonetheless. They could go to Valholl and sit at Wodin's table, but not Grom. The barbarians were brought out, their hands tied in front in front of them and were handed blunted swords. Each man knelt as the executioner came out with that big axe of his. They were given the chance to bow their heads but they didn't. Each man held his head high and looked the executioner in the eyes, facing the blade as it took off their heads. The last man didn't even flinch after watching his brothers die first. She had to admit that it was quite brave of him. But at least he had a chance to be brave, Grom didn't get a chance; they just shamed him.

And he's a dwarf, ain't he? He deserves to be treated better than men.

They gave surrendering men, who were lesser beings, the honour they denied a dwarf, a true son of the mountain. She clenched her fists at the injustice of it.

Enemies that attacked a dwarven city killed its people and they get an honourable death, ain't right. But some misguided fool learns some bloody tricks and what does he get? Whirl, twang, crack. The sound will haunt her, she fucking knew it.

She had an uncle, a genius by anyone's reckoning. He was one of them inventor types that would create wondrous and strange marvels in his spare time.

Her dad would tell the story of when as a child her uncle Jaric built these amazing toys that could walk, shoot miniature cannons, and blow smoke. When he got older, he blew up his room mixing different chemicals together, luckily no one got hurt so their dad built him a brick shed in the garden for him to do his experiments in.

When he was on the cusp of adulthood he invented a stronger and more stable gunpowder that was still used by the military today. Turns out he had an obsessive nature, he would wake in the middle of the night to try some new thing he dreamt of and wouldn't sleep, eat, or nothing until he succeeded. His reputation grew until the governing dwarves were interested in his inventions.

He started getting contracts to create newer and better machines to make life better for the citizens. But Ula reckoned the pressure was just too much for him. He'd disappear for weeks at a time, working on some crazy contraption or other. It was like he had to prove himself each time like he had to outdo his last invention.

It was during one of the marathon sessions that tragedy struck. He was working with some strong chemicals when they exploded. Burnt him pretty bad, but he lived. Unfortunately, he lost his beard, right to the skin, and it never grew back. The shame of it.

He took to locking himself away and never coming out to see nobody. Her dad tried to get him to come out several times but Jaric would just scream and rant at him 'til he left. Then one day he said nothing all day. His dad found him dead in his room, hanging from the ceiling. The family ain't never been the same since.

Aye, Garn may have been a wizard, and that's a crime alright, ain't no one can deny that, but this... Whirl, twang, crack.

It was too much. Ula moved through the quiet streets, lost in her thoughts when she found herself at The Miner's Crack.

Good, it'd be nice to be around happy dwarves.

She entered the tavern. A few miserable-looking dwarves were staring into their mugs, silently drinking.

"Oh, bollocks," she said.