He reached down into the folds of his cloak and felt the pouch of gold against his fingers. The pouch had been filled in some haste and he tightened his fist over it lest the drawstring came loose. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently advertise the existence of the pouch or its contents to the people he passed in the castle halls. Chambermaids, pages, squires, and even armored guardsmen stopped midstride. They conversed in hushed tones as he passed them by, wraith-like. Some of them suspected where he was headed, and most of them wished they never had to go there themselves. They lowered their eyes and shied away from his gaze.
He didn’t care. He had a reputation to uphold. He was Northmere Castle’s torturer, executioner, and punisher after all. Indeed, they had dubbed him The Wraith of Northmere, Bringer of Sorrow, The Heartless One, The Stone-Faced Gargoyle, and a multitude of other grim sobriquets seldom issued to beings who drew blood, and he was responding to a summons by the lord of the castle himself.
He slipped into an empty alcove and once more confirmed the number of coins, an unneeded action, for he was seldom wrong in his calculations. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway and quickly concealed the pouch. The hushed laughter of a woman and the unintelligible deep tones of a man. They stepped into the alcove and froze as they recognized the dark, cloaked figure before them. “Lord Aethanstan!” the man exclaimed and bowed quickly. The woman went pale as she shuffled behind the man as if to shield herself.
“Forgive me, my lord. We didn’t realize….” the man, a young squire, trailed off as his eyes met the unblinking stare of the stony visage before him. He began to smile, and then, as if recalling a previous encounter, he mumbled an apology and pulled the woman behind him as they quickly rushed out of the alcove. Their footsteps receded. Aethanstan sighed, stepped out into the corridor, and continued towards his destination.
The guards bowed their heads in reverence as they opened the ornately carved doors. Aethanstan stepped into the high-walled, well-lit chambers. The walls were adorned with an assortment of weapons. Rapiers, falchions, longswords gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, and instruments of torture, rusty with the blood of victims past, hung from nails. A wretched figure, head bowed, knelt in the middle of the chambers, an occasional whimper emanated from his trembling lips. Aethanstan knew this man, an expert weaponsmith, whom he had often spotted at his home forge, playing with his child, a golden-haired girl of six years.
Opposite the kneeling man, flanked by guards in dark armor, a bulbous, repulsive figure sat at a table laden with food. The castle magister stood beside one of the guards. Lord Braithwaite, the slobbering, obnoxious figure that was the Lord of Northmere Castle, ripped into a turkey leg with his teeth. He looked up and noticed Aethanstan approach. He spat out the freshly-bitten morsel and roared, “Welcome, my friend! Have you had your supper yet? Do join me if you please!”
Aethanstan bowed slightly. “Thank you, my lord. I had just about finished my meal when I received your summons,” he lied, his voice had an inhuman quality to it, devoid of emotion. Aethanstan smiled inwardly as Braithwaite flinched slightly at the sound of his voice.
Lord Braithwaite wiped his mouth with a stained, dripping sleeve, “Ah, no matter,” he said after a growling burp. He motioned a hand towards the kneeling man. “This fool here has stolen from me.”
“No, my lord! I swear on the life of my child….” the man pleaded.
“SILENCE!” Braithwaite screamed as he jumped to his feet and threw a wine-filled goblet at the man, the dark liquid left a trail across the floor but missed the kneeling figure entirely. “Insolent spawn of vermin! You dare speak to me??” He sputtered, peeved that his aim hadn’t been good enough.
Aethanstan watched, unmoving, his eyes had never left Braithwaite during his outburst. The lord lowered his huge frame down into his chair once more and grunted, “He has embarrassed me by not preparing a bejeweled dagger in time. It was a promised gift to the prince himself,” he paused, sneering at the trembling weaponsmith “and His Highness just left this morning without the dagger. And thus, I have been stolen of my honor.” He bit into a piece of steamed turnip and spat it out immediately in disgust.
Aethanstan turned his head slowly to look at the kneeling weaponsmith. “I see, and why have I been summoned, my lord?” he said as he turned back to Braithwaite who had resumed gorging himself on a roasted turkey leg.
“To advise me on the nature of the punishment, of course!” the lord managed to mumble out whilst chewing.
Aethanstan walked towards a weapon rack and with a single movement drew out a broadsword and regarding the weapon with a critical gaze, declared in a matter-of-fact tone, “I do believe we should separate his head from the rest of his body.”
A wail of despair erupted from the weaponsmith along with a cry of surprise from the castle magister, who up until this point, had remained silent.
Aethanstan turned and walked, sword in hand, up to the magister, “You do not approve?”
The magister, a kindly, wizened old man, looked at Lord Braithwaite, who nodded, permitting him to speak. “Surely, I don’t! This man, however incompetent, is not a traitor!” the magister blurted out in disgust. “He may deserve to be punished in some manner but not by the loss of his life. He may still be of use to the King!” He glared at the cloaked executioner in open revulsion and whispered to himself, “truly The Heartless One!”
Aethanstan, apparently unmoved by the magister’s words, regarded the broadsword once again and held it horizontally at arm’s length, checking the straightness of the blade. “All right. Let us then cut off his hands at the wrists,” he swung the sword in a figure-of-eight, “or at least one of them. And let us also seize his home and whatever wealth he possesses in the name of the King. I’m sure the good folk of Northmere are ever so merciful towards beggars.”
Lord Braithwaite looked at the weaponsmith, a sadistic expression forming on his face. He turned to the magister and opened his mouth, intending to fully agree with Aethanstan.
Before the lord could speak, however, the magister quickly spoke in a choked, angry voice, “And of what use would he be to the King then?”
Aethanstan ignored this query and, after wiping the blade with his fingers, turned to Braithwaite, “My lord, may I be allowed to keep this weapon after we are done here? I shall, of course, reimburse the magister with the value of the sword.”
“By all means, old friend! Keep it. It’s yours. Consider it a gift!” Lord Braithwaite beamed, still very much anticipating the spilling of blood as the entertainment for the evening.
Aethanstan bowed, “I am humbled by His Lordship’s generosity. May I inquire as to where the blade was acquired? It seems to be of a superior make than the ones that are forged in Northmere, though, of course, it’s quality will be confirmed once we lop off a few fingers from this incompetent smith.”
One of the armored guards quickly whispered something into the magister’s ear whose face lightened up, a look of joy apparent on his face. “The blade was forged in Northmere!” he declared in an loud shout, and after regaining his composure, continued in a lower but obviously excited voice. “And it was forged by the very weaponsmith that you wish to maim and impoverish this night.”
Lord Braithwaite, taken aback, looked at the magister, “Is that true?” he asked in a disappointed voice. “Is that true?” he repeated, turning to the kneeling weaponsmith.
The weaponsmith, his spirits buoyed with hope, dared to look at Braithwaite. “It is, my lord. I forged this weapon a fortnight ago.” His voice having gained a clarity that had been absent before.
Braithwaite stared at the weaponsmith in disdain. He fidgeted with a carving knife quietly.
“Very well, has he delivered the bejeweled dagger?” he asked the magister.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Has he been paid for it?”
“No, my lord.”
“How much was he supposed to get?”
“Ten gold, my lord.”
“How much did we pay him for that broadsword?”
“Three gold, my lord.”
Braithwaite attempted to do some calculations with his fingers and gave up. “This then shall be the punishment.” He tried to speak in a voice infused with authority but gave up on that as well. “The weaponsmith’s blood shall not be spilt this day. The price of the bejeweled dagger shall be included in the penalties incurred. Twenty broadswords or their value in gold shall be paid within a week’s time or he shall be our guest in these very chambers once more.” He sneered at the weaponsmith, “and master weaponsmith or not, I shall not be so merciful again.”
“Might I be allowed to say something on His Lordship’s verdict?” Aethanstan spoke.
Braithwaite nodded.
“Perhaps thirty broadswords would be a better number. I’ve noticed several of the castle guards bearing worn-out weapons.”
The magister interrupted quickly, “Forgive me, my lord, but Lord Aethanstan should not deign to involve himself in matters of the treasury and monetary penalties. His Lordship has already declared the weaponsmith to be exempt from physical punishment for now. Sixty gold or twenty broadswords; that is His Lordship’s judgment.”
Aethanstan stared at the magister but remained silent. Braithwaite, with an uncharacteristically apologetic look on his face, turned to Aethanstan, “My friend, let things be for now.” The magister regarded Aethanstan with a look that often graces the countenances of victorious generals in the fields of battle.
“However,” Braithwaite paused and smiled at Aethanstan, “I entrust you with the responsibility of recovering the penalty. And since the weapon pleases you, you may keep one more of the broadswords recovered. And yes, the weaponsmith’s blood shall not be drawn this night.” He glanced at the magister. “But you are free to do as you please with him without the drawing of blood.” He smirked at the wide-eyed, aghast look on the magister’s face.
Aethanstan bowed, “I take my leave then, my lord.” He turned and grabbed the kneeling weaponsmith by his collar, who stumbled to his feet clumsily.
They moved through the castle halls and people stopped in their tracks and looked upon in horror as they watched the Wraith of Northmere drag the weaponsmith with one hand while holding a naked broadsword in another.
Aethanstan stopped at the castle gates and released the man from his grasp. The stationed guards averted their gaze. They wanted no part in whatever the torturer intended to do with the man. They quietly moved away from the two men. The weaponsmith looked at Aethanstan and pleaded, “My lord, please. I have a family, a child. I swear I shall deliver the weapons by any means. I shall borrow! I shall sell my home if I have to….”
“BE QUIET!” Aethanstan hissed. The weaponsmith staggered back a step and went weak at the knees as he clasped his fingers and looked at the mud at his feet, sobbing. Aethanstan reached into the folds of his cloak and offered the pouch. The man looked at the pouch, unable to comprehend. “My lord?” The flickering torchlight danced on Aethanstan’s stone-faced features.
“Take it.” Aethanstan said without emotion.
The weaponsmith reached out with trembling hands and took the pouch. He loosened the drawstring and looked inside. The gold gleamed in torchlight. He looked up, eyes blinking, his mouth moving, but no words came forth.
“Tomorrow, you shall come to the castle and in my presence, you shall hand over sixty gold pieces to the magister.” Aethanstan said quietly with an effort to put some softness in his tone.
Realization dawned upon the weaponsmith at last, and he began to cry. The guards heard the sobs and shuffled away even farther, having no intention to witness whatever act of ruthlessness that was about to transpire. The pouch slipped from the weaponsmith’s fingers as he sank to his knees and reached for Aethanstan’s hand and attempted to kiss it.
Aethanstan pulled his hand away roughly. He let the broadsword slip from his grasp. He reached down quickly and picked up the pouch with one hand, held the man by the throat with the other, and pulled him to his feet.
In his mind, he saw a beautiful child with golden locks. He saw a loving wife. He saw a hardworking, honest man.
He saw a life he would never have.
But he was the Wraith of Northmere, and he had a reputation to uphold.
His fingers tightened on the weaponsmith’s throat as he whispered, his voice almost malevolent, “If you utter even a single word to anyone of the gold that I have given you today, I swear to you I shall rip out your tongue and feed it to the crows. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” the weaponsmith managed to whisper back, his hands fumbling with the vise-like grip of the torturer. Aethanstan released the man and picked up the broadsword. He turned back toward the castle.
“My lord!” The weaponsmith called out behind him. Aethanstan stopped in his tracks. “My lord, there’s probably more than sixty gold here. I think it’s nearly a hundred!”
Without a word, the Wraith of Northmere resumed walking, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Sometimes, because of the magister, his calculations could turn out to be very wrong.
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Copyright © 2022 Ethan S.
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