Tales of the Vangen: The Black Ministry's Betrayal (Book 1)

Chapter 3: A Midnight Visit

"Form the letters S and C. Hold them close so lovingly. Wrap it round and pinch the space. Poke the end and pull in place. Tug it left then yank it right. Adjust the noose and make it tight. Hold it open to cause a fright, hang them under the pale moonlight."

Culter smiled as he finished tying the knot, eyeing his work with mirthful satisfaction. He tossed the noose beside him, grabbed for more rope and started again, muttering the poem once more.

"Gots to hurry quick now," He said to no one in particular. "Five more knots before they get here. Gots a nice display waiting for them. Ain't that right?" Culter patted the pile of corpses stacked in the cart beside him. "Freshly delivered rebels from my good brothers Civis and Regis. Barely got the stink of death on them. Nice and stiff with rigor. Perfect for a hanging."

Culter finished tying the  knots, tossed them over the cart and started lugging the heavy contraption through the clearing. The magnificent fort appeared as soon as he broke past, towers peaking over the hill like half-drawn swords. The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving a pearly dew on the grass. Overhead, a full moon winked open as a fat cloud peeled off the midnight sky.

"A fool's moon tonight," Culter said. "How could this night get any better? Those rebels up there won't have to strain their eyes to see my art. Nice and easy."

Culter dropped the cart and set about throwing nooses over several, sturdy branches. Each one he drove a stake into into the earth before settling down into the roughest part of the business. Hauling the corpses. With a peevish grunt, he lugged one of them out of the cart and started dragging it towards the first noose.

"My my, whether you were a popper or a prince, you'll have a proper collar now my dear dead lord." Culter tapped the corpse on the nose and slipped the noose around its neck. Pulling the rope taut, he took the slack and heaved it with all his might. Even still, It took a good while to get the dead man nice and high in the treetop. 

Reeling the slack back, Culter tied the excess to the stake, muttering another knot poem he'd learned during his stint as sailor. "They've got a tune for everything these days," He said to himself. "Wonder if they've got a song for hanging dead men?" Culter shrugged. "Maybe I oughts to make one."

It was a good hour before he'd hanged the other five. By then a stiff breeze had started to pick up, the ropes groaning out their heartfelt song, swaying the dead men like wind chimes. When the final knot was tied, Culter stepped back and admired his work, wiping sweat from his pale, bald brow.

"It's hard work to make fine art," he said, mouth twisting into a cruel smile. "As they say, though, it's the work itself that's satisfying. But what is art without admirers? Best hurry and give them a good show." Placing two fingers into his mouth, Culter turned to the fort and let out a jaunty whistle.

It wasn't long before the rebels took notice. Torches quickly gathered together along the wooden palisades. Cries of alarm filled the air, spoken in that strange Orienta tongue that sounded like the wind whispering in your ear. Soon enough, Culter saw the gates to the fort yawn open, the sound of whickering horses and shouting men following soon after.

"Best hurry now before they catch me," Culter said as he slunk back into the forest's edge before scurrying up a tree. He pressed himself against the trunk, his dark leather armor blending into the wood. With one hand clasped to a branch, he pried open a pouch and dipped two fingers within. They came back out dull and ashy from the charcoal he'd stowed away., and with a few gentle wipes his pasty, albino face was as dark and foreboding as the night itself.

The sound of the horses grew closer with every breath, a considerable troop of them given the dust they kicked up. Torchlight winked into existence until the rebels were dimly visible, and oh how Culter reveled at the faces they made. There truly was something satisfying about seeing terror in a man's eyes,  faces pinched with worry, their mouths slack with horror.