A cluster of fairy orbs hovered near the edge of the Fool Plaza where grotesque statues ringed the space with hissing, snarling expressions. The animalistic sculptures, backlit by the glowing orbs, looked to be uttering screams from out of the shadows.
Behind them stood pawn shops filled with odds and ends and mostly known for unsavory customers attempting to sell off rotten meat and outlawed items such as new razors and files. Today the shop owners had closed the doors and ventured outside to watch the upcoming punishment with hungry eyes.
“Fools, the two of you,” The Hangman roared. “To think you can come into MY house?”
He stood only a few paces away from the stocks. The inhabitants of Iskawan shrank back, trying to become a part of the shadows.
Jiro cried out as The Hangman’s servant turned the attention of the whip to him. Rakesh drew in a breath and clutched for threads of sanity during this brief lull in his own punishment.
“I am everywhere,” The Hangman boomed, his ham-like fists on his hips. He turned a bright and malevolent eye to the gathering crowd. “You cannot disobey me. You cannot perform foul deeds in the darkness that I will not see. Do you understand?”
A low murmur of assent rippled through the crowd.
Rakesh hung his head. Sweat dripped down his forehead. His mouth was dry as a desert. He wanted a drink of water almost as much as a reprieve from the pain.
The quiet mumblings of the crowd moved into his ear. They sounded thick and slow, as if the words had travelled through water to reach his ears.
“He will kill that one.”
“Neither committed murder. They should not die!”
Rakesh heard the words, the quiet disapproval, but did not comprehend what it would mean. All he knew and understood was the pain. The endless agony. The thirst.
Next to him, Jiro calmed his cries. He too hung his head and began to weep.
“Courage, Jiro,” Rakesh rasped. “I am with you.”
Sticking out of the stock was Rakesh’s hand – missing a finger. Blood oozed out of his hand, trickled across his palm.
“There is no courage in Iskawan!” The Hangman cried.
He turned, spinning his hips, and brought his foot up against Rakesh’s injured hand with a perfect kick.
Rakesh collapsed in the stocks, screaming all the way from the bottom of his stomach. His agony echoed through the square, billowing through all of Iskawan.
The other residents stopped murmuring. Lights exploded across Rakesh’s vision, blurring what he saw. When he looked up, seeking air, life, and solace, all the Vakums were turned toward him. Their blank, unending gazes penetrated through his haze, and his scream faded into a dying gurgle as he locked eyes with one Vakum with long, scraggly hair.
The Vakum’s gaze seemed to slam into Rakesh, erasing the pain for a moment. The Vakum shuffled toward him, a hand outstretched.
Behind him, more Vakums spilled out of the crowd, their eyes fixed on Rakesh.
Rakesh held his breath. The air stopped in his throat, and he uttered a half-scream, half-whimper.
Three more Vakums headed toward Rakesh in the hazy cloud of his vision.
The long-haired Vakum was now a mere step away. His long, yellow-nailed fingers reached for Rakesh’s freshly bleeding hand. Just before he touched it, The Hangman planted a hand on the Vakum’s shoulder and shoved him off.
“Leave him. He’s mine,” The Hangman snarled.
The rest of the Vakums who had surged forward faded back into the strange cloud, and the inhabitants of Iskawan began to breathe again.
The Hangman stared at the lone remaining Vakum until he too slipped back into the strange cloud.
Back into the shadows. Back into their bland, restless, unknowing existence.
Rakesh lay limply against the boards and drew in a long breath.
“Stupid, spineless mongrels,” The Hangman muttered.
Rakesh braced himself for another round of pain, but The Hangman held up a fist instead. The restless crowd quieted.
“Cease,” The Hangman ordered his servant. “Let them hang there for a few minutes. May their blood stain the ground as a testament to those who defy me.”
Next to him, Jiro quietly wept. Rakesh swallowed past his dry throat. He was far past the point of shedding bitter tears.
Water. He wanted water.
The Hangman strode across the ground, stopping just before Rakesh.
“Do you know that I have loyal people in Iskawan?” he hissed into Rakesh’s ear with his hot, foul breath. “Loyal people who keep an eye on the happenings here? Yes. Loyal, self-aware servants. Like your friend. Gekko.”
The Hangman side-stepped, swinging out one arm. Behind him, Gekko stood, grimacing, as the fairy orbs spun above him now in a wild vortex, illuminating his betrayal.
Rakesh gasped. “Gekko?”
Next to him, Jiro sucked in a sharp breath.
The friends’ old roommate glanced at them through narrowed eyes as he winced and shrank back. “I . . . I . . .” The sounds coming from his lips ceased. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.
In the crowd, someone hissed.
Gekko swallowed. He tried to straighten, but seemed to lack the strength. Instead, he turned a shoulder to his roommates, as if blocking them from sight.
“Traitor!” Jiro screamed. “Traitor!”
Gekko looked away, moving behind The Hangman’s servants. He cast his eyes to the ground, swallowing hard again and again.
“Survival is the name of the game here,” The Hangman said in a sing-song voice. “Surely you cannot blame your friend for wanting to move up in life? I always treat well those who serve me. Gekko will have his reward.”
The Hangman tossed a small burlap bag at Gekko. From inside came the sound of metal clinking together.
Cast-away coins, no doubt. Scraps of metal. Other small, valuable trading trinkets that would afford Gekko a few days of luxury.
Gekko simply stared at it as his nostrils flared.
“Betrayer!” Jiro screamed. He struggled against the wooden bonds, eventually collapsing in exhaustion. “You betrayed your friends! No one trust him! No one!”
Slowly, one greedy inch at a time, Gekko reached down, snatched the purse from the ground, shoved it into his sleeve, and headed off into the crowd.
The crowd parted, watching him go with stunned expressions.
Too horrified to speak, Rakesh simply stared at Gekko’s back until he could see it no more, uncertain which felt worse: the sting of the whip or the stink of Gekko’s betrayal.
None of this would have happened if Gekko hadn’t betrayed them.
It seemed incomprehensible that the wheels of fate spun on such a heinous act.
The Hangman spun around, waving his hands in the air. “Be gone, residents. I am removing these criminals for questioning. May all of you ever remember the consequences of defying me and invading my home. Never again.”
One of The Hangman’s servants approached Rakesh, opening the wooden stocks and yanking him free with a harsh jerk.
Rakesh cried out in pain as the servants ignored his open wounds and grabbed him by the shoulders, shoving him forward into the square. Iskawan’s residents scattered to escape his presence, shooting away like rodents encountering light. None stayed to help, and Rakesh hadn’t thought they would.
The Hangman wasn’t wrong; the residents of Iskawan knew survival, not compassion.
Jiro, similarly freed, fell onto his knees beside Rakesh. Blood trails ran down his back like rivers.
“Come,” The Hangman ordered. “Come to my shelter for questioning. The real fun has just begun.”
“You know, this over here is really my home,” The Hangman purred half an hour later. “The two of you thought you invaded my home, but you were wrong. That spot over there is where I sleep sometimes. But this? This is my true den.”
At The Hangman’s order, his servants herded Rakesh and Jiro into a darkened room in the back of the building, far from the reach of the faint orbs that illuminated the front entryway.
Here, tools filled all the walls with faint silver light. Corkscrew-shaped weapons with razor-sharp edges. Chairs here and there along the walls. And a table with four ropes tied to it.
Rakesh wanted to vomit as he tumbled to his knees.