“Give him to me,” s’Ex commanded.
As the executioner grabbed onto the back of the hold, he lifted iAm’s limp body from the floor with no more effort than he might put into raising a flask of wine.
“Please…” Trez begged. “He is not of this … let him go…”
For some reason, his brother’s dangling lower legs registered with nauseating clarity. Only one of iAm’s shoes was on still, the other having been lost in whatever abduction and torture had occurred. And both feet were pointing inward, the big toes touching, one tilted in unnaturally from a broken ankle.
“Now, Trez,” s’Ex said, “did you think your decision wasn’t going to affect him? I’m telling you to put the knife down. If you do not, I’m going to take this”—the executioner jogged iAm’s limp body up and down—“and I’m going to wake it up. Do you know how I’m going to do that? I’m going to take this”—in his free hand he flashed a serrated knife—“and put it into its shoulder. Then I’m going to twist until it starts to scream.”
Trez began to blink away tears. “Let him go. This has nothing to do with him.”
“Put the knife down.”
“Let him—”
“Shall I demonstrate?”
“No! Let him—”
s’Ex stabbed iAm’s shoulder so hard, the blade cut through the leather and went into the flesh.
“Twist?” s’Ex barked over the scream. “Yes? Or are you dropping that butter knife?”
The clatter of the silver hitting the marble floor was overpowered by iAm’s harsh, dragging breaths.
“That’s what I thought.” s’Ex jerked the knife out and iAm started to moan and cough, blood speckling the floor. “We’re going back to your quarters.”
“Let him go first.”
“You are not in a position to make demands.”
Guards came out of that hidden door in a swarm, all black-robed figures with chain-mail masks. They didn’t touch him. They weren’t allowed to. They surrounded him and began to walk, pushing him along with their bodies. Forcing him back to the place he had escaped.
Trez fought the tide, rising up on the balls of his feet, trying to see his brother.
“Don’t kill him!” he shouted. “I’ll go! I’ll go—just don’t hurt him!”
s’Ex stood where he was, that notched, bloodied blade catching the light as he held it aloft. As if he were considering major organs for the next stab.
“It’s up to you, Trez. It’s all up to—”
Something snapped.
Later, when the white light had faded from Trez’s vision and the cresting wave receded, when the roar was silenced and a strange pain in his hands began to ride up his forearms, when he was no longer standing but on his knees, he would realize that the first guard he had killed that night was far from his last.
He would realize that he somehow murdered with his bare hands all who had surrounded him …
… and s’Ex was still standing there with his brother.
More than the deaths he caused, and the horror at iAm’s imprisonment with him, more than the copper-scented blood that was so red and now not just marking his footprints, he would remember the soft laugh that percolated through the mesh links covering the executioner’s face.
A soft laugh.
As if the executioner approved of the carnage.
Trez did not laugh. He began to sob, lifting bloody, torn hands to his face.
“The astrological charts did not lie,” s’Ex said. “You are a force in this world, well suited for procreation.”