A Matter of Fate

Tilane felt himself crawling across the floor, the stench of burning timbers stinging his nostrils. He couldn’t tell where he was. Everything was black as smoke wafted into the room, burning his eyes and choking him. He knew the door was just down the hallway. If only he could find the hallway.

It was so hot, so terribly hot. The smoky darkness was all consuming, he couldn’t tell if he was going the right way. He could hear the crackling of fire and wood exploding behind him. It was getting hotter. The deadly sounds grew nearer. The fire was catching up. He knew he had to move quickly to get out, but it was too hard. He thought he might pass out as putrid smoke filled his lungs.

A loud rumble came from behind. He could feel bits of debris flying into his back. He fell forward, though no more than a few small pieces of rubble hit him. Some of the smoke started to clear out. He could see the door as smoke started to flow through the newly formed hole in the ceiling.

Only the sound of raging fire and bursting wood was left now that the thunderous cave in of the roof was over. Tilane felt new life rush into him as smoke wafted away and the door came into view. He pushed himself off the floor and crawled faster towards the one place he could escape the conflagration. He knew he still had to keep low as the smoke was thickening again.

Perhaps it was his sudden movement, or maybe it was the smoke was finally defeating him that caused Tilane’s head to spin. Everything started circling all around. The walls, the floor, the ceiling with its gaping hole, were now all above, now below, now ahead, now behind. So fast was everything spinning that Tilane had to close his eyes. Still the dizziness persisted. He felt like he was falling. He felt a darkness begin to come over him. He was going to pass out. He wasn’t going to escape the fire. He was going to die.

Once again, Tilane opened his eyes and tried to ignore the world running circles around him. He ignored the burning in his eyes, nostrils and mouth and leapt to his feet. He ignored the voice inside himself telling him to be cautious. He shoved aside all reason and let his instinct take over in one last, desperate gambit.

Tilane ran for the door, heedless of the destruction all around him. He was focused on that one goal, that one possible salvation. One single point was the nexus of his reality. His feet carried him, though his mind was lost. His hands ranged out before him, groping for some unseen lifeline to pull him to safety. He ran blindly, unaware of how far the door really was. It was his last hope. He had to reach the door, or he was lost.

It seemed he ran for hours, yet the door came only inches closer. His breath was coming short, his eyes failing. Everything spun around him, only the door remained static. All of his energy was spent on keeping the door in focus and reaching it. All of his energy was spent far too quickly. With a strangled breath, Tilane fell to the floor, his vision growing dark and blurred. He thought he saw a hand, perhaps the black hand of Death, maybe the hand of some far worse Fate, reaching out for him. As his body impacted the floor, Tilane let out one last, shallow breath and slipped into darkness.


* * *


The smell of dried blood and week-old dung stung Tilane’s nostrils as he awoke into what seemed a nightmare worse than the one he had just awakened from. His left eye opened, the right swollen shut from the beating he had taken the night before. It mattered little, since everything was dark around him. Only a dim light issued through the small, barred window near the ceiling of the cell. It was the cool light of early morning, barely enough to spot the moss-stained walls surrounding him.

Tilane thought of the sun coming over the horizon. An image was in his memory of a sunrise seen from the peaks of tall mountains. How long ago that had seemed now. It was in his twenty-second year that he had visited the Mountains of Reckoning. The Dwarves had treated him well enough, given the fact that he was a stranger to their ways and customs. They had been given a reputation of being inhospitable, but in fact they were very cultured and, in their own way, showed great courtesy.

Little did any of his adventures matter now. For years Tilane had been out in the world, seeing and doing things that few other men had. Such was the life of a Drarihn Sorcerer. Always wandering, seeking out those who would be important in the days to come. Always seeming to do Good, while secretly doing whatever needed to be done to maintain the fragile Balance no matter what the cost. It was not something he had ever chosen to do. As with all of his kind, he was but a slave to Fate.

He lifted a thin hand to his face. Even though he had been careful to give only the slightest touch, a crippling pain shot through his skull. Realizing the grievousness of his injury, he reached within himself to grasp the Power held within. He had often told others to bear the pain and now he would have to do it as well. It was not the first time he had attempted to Heal himself, though never before had he attempted to repair injuries so severe in anyone. He placed his hand over his eye, enduring the agony. Soon, the cell was alight with a dull, bluish glow from Tilane’s hand. He felt rather than saw the bloody two-inch gash, bruise and the torn muscle and broken bones in his cheek and jaw. Slowly, he mended them together with no more than a concentrated thought.

Healing had never been his best skill and it took nearly all his effort to make himself well again. He lifted his hand from his face and carefully opened the eye. At first, his vision was slightly blurry, but after a moment his hand came into focus. He again touched his cheek, expecting some pain, but it was Healed completely. Tilane let out his breath; the first, he thought, since he had begun the Healing.

Without having a moment to recover, he became aware of another light coming through the bars of the window in the iron door. It was a flickering light, which seemed to keep pace with heavy footsteps coming nearer. They stopped and an unkempt face peered in through the window, accompanied by a toothless grin. Muddled prattle was mingled with the sounds of a key and the clang of a lock releasing. With a creak, the heavy door swung open and a short, stocky man entered the cell. He carried a tray with what might have passed for food.

“Ya needs to eat, ya do.” The man’s voice was gravelly and he had a thick accent that sounded even more uncultured than the Wild-Men of the Sedain Wetlands. He set the tray down just in front of Tilane and backed to the door, quick as an endangered rat.

Tilane looked at the tray and the bowl of foul-smelling gruel and cup of stale water that sat on it. He made a motion with his hand to dismiss the jail-tender, thoughts of escape stalled when he noticed the two heavily armed guards still behind the doorway, which brought to mind the Vision of so many years ago. Tilane knew his time among the mortals of the world was drawing to a close.

“Ya goin’ ta eat ‘efore I leaves ya ‘lone. It bein ya last meal an all dat.” The jail-tender had said those words with a smirk, intending them to be some kind of shocking revelation. Tilane simply glared at him with icy eyes, using his Sight to delve into the man’s mind. Locked in a near trance, the jail-tender was unable to move as his mind was invaded. His thoughts, simplistic as they were, were not just his own anymore. All the limited knowledge he had acquired over his forty-two years was, in a single, fleeting moment, stolen and wiped away.

It was not the first time Tilane had lost control of his temper and mind-wiped an innocent. This time, however, he enjoyed it. The sniveling dullard would torment no more prisoners who were awaiting Death. One of the guards grabbed the jail-tender as he lost control of his body and fell forward, drooling and babbling like an infant. Wendil was his name, though he would not remember it for many years to come if at all. Perhaps he would even recall significant parts of his life, like his mother’s face and the day his son was born, but Wendil would never be the same again. He would likely never even remember the name of the man who had devoured his mind.

As they dragged Wendil away, the guards slammed the door and shouted to Tilane: “You’ll not wait long for the headman’s axe, scoundrel!” Indeed, Tilane was not a patient man and he wished they would just get it over with. He again looked at the malodorous food that had been brought to him as a last meal. With a quick burst of Power, he sent it crashing into the wall across the cell.

Tilane pulled himself against the wall and lay, exhausted from using his Power so flagrantly. He had been warned that the misuse of his abilities would one day be his bane. Perhaps the pressure of being one of the Drarihn was just growing to be too much for him. Perhaps he was just giving in to the darker urges that all men have. Perhaps he was just doing what he had always been destined to do. Such are the unexplained actions of the Drarihn, he thought. So many had perished for reasons still unclear. So many had fallen without cause. All because it is their fate to do so and Fate cannot be suppressed, even by those whom it uses as tools.

Recovering himself from despair, Tilane closed his eyes and thought of the mysterious chain of events that brought him to this place. He had only come to the city of Gaireln on the behest of Ulear, an Elder of the Drarihn. Without explanation, he had been asked to make his way to the Drarihn Temple there for further guidance. He had been shocked to find the Temple razed and no presence of the Drarihn, or any other religious or magical sect save for Oberionites. He had quickly realized that something was terribly amiss and tried to hide his presence, but he was discovered nonetheless later that night.

Tilane had been attacked by several of Oberion’s High Guard and had used his Power to slay many of those who came against him. He had known of the ascension of a new High Priest of Oberion, but he’d had no idea how terrible their new dictator would become. After exhausting all of his Power in a battle that may have not only cost many lives, but also destroyed several blocks of the city, Tilane had finally lost the fight against exhaustion and passed out. He had awakened lying prostrate before the High Inquisition, the enforcers of the High Priest’s laws.


* * *


Tilane could feel that his wrists were bound together behind his back and pain in his ankles told him that he was likely linked to a ball and chain. He thought he could hear voices and sense people around him in his dim consciousness. Slowly he was coming to, becoming aware of what had happened to him and his current surroundings.

He was in a single room nearly the size of several modest palaces that he had seen in his travels. Intricate tapestries lined the walls and skillfully crafted and carved pillars made two lines along either side, as if splitting the great hall into thirds. A crowd stood behind either side of the barrier created by the tall pillars, the attention of the people scattered in two directions. The first, he was not shocked to discover, was himself. The other was directly before him, up a set of thirteen steps to a dais where sat three men dressed in black robes.

The man in the middle was in a chair, somewhat larger and set higher than the other two and his robe was trimmed with golden thread. A golden scale was embroidered on the chest of his robe, the right side of the scales weighing more heavily than the left. The man to his right wore a robe trimmed with red and a red shepherd’s crook was embroidered on his chest. To the left, the smallest of the three men had a white key embroidered on his robe, with no trim.

Their voices could barely be heard as they whispered. Tilane could make little sense out of their conversation as he lifted his head to spit at them. He had seen the Inquisition in action once before. He had prayed at that time that he never fall victim to their twisted sense of mercy and justice. His action brought something heavy down upon his back, knocking the wind out of him. He could feel something cold and sharp touching the nape of his neck.

The heads of the three Inquisitors looked up from their deliberations. As if rehearsed thousands of times over, they removed their cowls simultaneously and peered with accusing eyes at Tilane. As the man in the middle spoke, all the people in the hall looked at him, fear and forced respect showing on their faces. All except the two beside him, who continued their steadfast gaze directed at Tilane.

“So, the dog awakens at last.” He spoke, with more than a hint of arrogance in his voice. He was an old man, his face wrinkled and marked with the lines of a stern expression that had probably never left his face in the last twenty years. Tilane looked up into eyes that were old and full of hate before his head was struck by something behind him.

“Do not look at the Lord Inquisitor!” A sharp voice commanded from behind Tilane as a fat man garbed in a silver and blue robe stepped in front of him. He held a staff that was shaped like a small warhammer at the top. He was the Marshal of the Magistrate.

“You have come before the Hall of Magistrate to bear witness to your Judgement by the Council Inquisitory of Righteous Oberion.” The Marshal spoke, “You shall not speak unless you are told to by one of your Inquisitors. You shall not look upon one of the Inquisitors with your tainted eyes. Do you understand, dog?”

Tilane could see that several guards surrounded him, their weapons at the ready. Had he made any effort to use the Power it would have been his last. He was at the mercy of the Inquisition. Any hope he’d had of getting free was fleeting. He was lost now.

“Speak, Drarihn dog!” The Marshal commanded, pounding his staff into the floor for emphasis. “Do you understand what I have told you?” The man asked the question as if addressing a child.

Tilane did not, would not, reply. He hated the Inquisition and it’s fallacious trials. The Marshal struck Tilane across the face with his staff. Tilane thought he felt something crack.

“Speak, dog!” The fat man shouted at him. Tilane spat out blood onto the polished floor as he turned to gaze at the Marshal.

“I…” His first word was cut short as another blow from the Marshal’s staff struck him.

“I told you not to speak unless told to by an Inquisitor!” The Marshal’s voice spoke beratingly, barely heard through the throbbing of Tilane’s head and ringing in his ears. Kneeling down in front of Tilane, the Marshal whispered to him. “Tempt me not far, dog, for I shall not hesitate to show you more pain.”

“Enough!” The Lord Inquisitor’s voice spoke with authority. “You do not need to torment him further, Sir Marshal. His guilt shall torment his soul enough for all of eternity if Oberion so commands it.” The Marshal backed off as his superior commanded him. With a bowed head, he glared at Tilane with smoldering violence in his eyes.

The old man had shown Tilane some degree of mercy, but his tone of voice betrayed his true intent. “Give me your name, Drarihn.” It was a command given by a man who was used to being obeyed without question. Tilane knew that the one power he still held over his captors was knowledge. He would not give it.

“Pity you don’t know, and you never will.” Tilane added a hint more arrogance than he usually carried in his voice. Goading the Inquisition was a dangerous game, but his hope was already lost. None faced the Inquisition and lived. Those who did returned to their former lives either as traitors or beggars. Tilane would be neither.

“It was not a request. You shall tell me your name.” The Inquisitor stood, showing himself to be a tall man with broad shoulders. His eyes were on Tilane, the anger in them betraying his outward calmness at being disobeyed.

“I will tell you nothing, Inquisitor. Nothing.” The emphasis that Tilane placed on the final word left no room for misunderstanding, yet he knew the Inquisition would not give up so easily.

Nostrils fuming, the Lord Inquisitor stepped slowly down the steps of the dais, saying nothing. Tilane could hear his labored breathing. The aged man was obviously doing all he could to contain his temper. He stood over Tilane like a mantis ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. “Do not mistake me for one of the fools like those who lead your dying Order. You are wrong to presume that I will make your death easy should you not prove yourself useful to Oberion’s Chosen One.”

Tilane spat at the Inquisitor. He knew how their games worked and simply wanted to get it over with. His life was forfeit the moment he had been captured anyway.

“Do not tempt me to anger, dog!” Roared the robed man, his anger at last showing through. He stomped back up the dais and, returning to his seat, looked at the man to his right.

“Sir Denouncer, speak of the charges to the accused.” His voice had returned to its previous calmness, yet still showed a hint of annoyance at the one who had refused to answer him. Tilane wished the questioning had continued as he had begun to get under the man’s skin.

The man with the red crook on his robe stood and faced his superior, “My Lord Inquisitor, the dog is guilty of many crimes. First, and most momentous, he is a Drarihn Sorcerer, a member of that accursed Order of those who oppose the will of Oberion and continue to spew chaos and strife throughout the realms of the Righteous One. Second, he entered the city of Gaireln, where Oberion’s Holy Temple sits and those who have not sworn themselves are forbidden. Third, he followed the trend set by his kind and slaughtered forty-seven guards and eight Priests of Almighty Oberion without cause. Fourth, he entered upon the grounds of the forsaken Temple of the Drarihn, where none are permitted to enter save those under command of Oberion’s Most High. Now, he has refused to answer the questioning of the Inquisition, an act most incriminating.”

The man sounded rather proud during his recital. Tilane wondered if the man thought of how many crimes he had committed in this very chamber, but doubted that he could see through his blind faith enough to think for himself.

“Sir Advocate, have you anything to say on behalf of the accused?” The old man in the middle of the three directed his question to the man on his left.

The Advocator stood from his chair beside the Lord Inquisitor, turned his glare to the old man and shook his head. “My Lord Inquisitor, his mere association as a Drarihn Sorcerer leaves him no defense.” The white key, a symbol of the only path to freedom, was a stark contrast against the black robe and dour expression of the man who returned to his chair. He cast his eyes downward momentarily, looking at Tilane almost with a trace of pity in his eyes.

The Lord Inquisitor again looked to his right. “Sir Denouncer, your recommendation?” The words were spoken, though there was truly little hint of a question in the Lord Inquisitor’s voice. Tilane knew the judgement that was already upon him.

The Denouncer stood, casting his eyes down toward Tilane. He took a moment to speak, as if considering proper punishment. “Death, My Lord Inquisitor.”

“And yours, Sir Advocate?”

“Death, Lord Inquisitor.” There was no hesitation from the man. His supposed role as defender of the accused was no more real than any of the farce of a trial that the Inquisition held. Their reputation was well earned.

The Lord Inquisitor stood, his gaze directed at Tilane, laying helpless on the stone floor. “So be my judgement. May Oberion show no mercy upon your unrighteous soul, Drarihn dog. May his vengeance cast you into Deepest Oblivion.”

Tilane began to laugh. He had won. They would not bother torturing him as they did so many innocents – they were afraid of the Power he held. Afraid that their torture would prove nothing. He was more valuable to them dead if he was not going to speak against his fellow sorcerers. “Lord Inquisitor,” He shouted so all in the chamber could hear, “I embrace my Fate and welcome the escape from this abhorrent realm of existence! I fear not the judgement that will be upon me! Can you say the same, you pig-headed slaughterer of innocents!”

Tilane could see that his words had struck the man harder this time. The old man wore a sickly scowl upon his visage as he yelled “Take him to his cell! His day will come soon!”

It was with no lack of abuse that he was escorted back to the dungeon of the Inquisition.


* * *

The memory now seemed more akin to a vague dream. He had seen the Inquisition in action before, but had never imagined that he would become one of their victims. He wondered what else would happen to him in his last days. Reflecting on his life, he wondered why Fate had chosen this for his end.

His childhood he remembered nothing about, other than that it had been a happy one. He barely remembered his mother. He thought she had been beautiful and he could still see her enchanting smile. Of his father, though, he could remember very little, save for his eyes. He remembered how those smoky gray eyes were so intent and thoughtful and how they could seemingly look right through you and know your secrets. They were good eyes, ones that had made Tilane feel safe and protected as a child, but he thought about how they could also seem terrible with his father’s wrath.

Those thoughts came to him so infrequently now that he had almost forgotten that he had been a normal child. He still couldn’t remember how he had gone from a happy childhood to the pathetic twisted existence he now had. Nearly all of his memories were from the Drarihn training and then going into the world, a Drarihn Sorcerer himself. It seemed a different lifetime that happy child had lived and knowing that he could remember so little of it now tormented him more than anything. He wondered what had become of his parents and if they ever still thought about him.


* * *

Kolin stood before the looking glass, taking in the ravages time had made on his body. His once thick, defined muscles were still there, but they were not as taut and strong as they once were. His face, once comely and fierce was showing signs of age. The wrinkles on his forehead were growing deeper and more numerous and bags were forming under his eyes. At least, he thought, he still had the same eyes. Those eyes had been what lured his wife to him, so many years ago. She had adored his eyes.

He had loved his wife more than anything else in the world. Then, his son had been born and everything changed. He still loved his wife the same, but now there was a love far different and far greater. His own scion, his flesh and blood made new in a baby boy. He remembered those years with his son and wife as the best in his life. The gods had given him great gifts.

Then, in a single, terrible night they had taken them away.

A tear began to form in Kolin’s eye as he recalled that night. He had been away on a hunting trip for nearly a fortnight. It was supposed to have been a night of celebration as he returned with a great trophy, the largest stag taken in the hills that year. He had ridden into the village with a smile on his face he had thought nothing could take away.

Then he had seen the fire. At first he had thought it was the Lucky Maid Tavern, which stood beside his own house. It wasn’t until he had made his way down Overshon Row that he had seen it was his own house burning. He had run as fast as he could to get there, but it had been too late. The men of the village had been trying for hours to put out the flames, but the fire had burned hot, almost unnaturally so. Kolin had asked about his wife and child when he had first made his way to the crowd gathering on the street in front of his home. Silence had been his only answer. There was no one in Ilinshire who had not known of the deep love Kolin had for his family and they were all nearly as heartbroken as he.

It was not until dusk the following day that the fire had at last been put out. Nothing but a black pile of rubble was left of Kolin’s home, which had been his father’s before him, and he had hoped to pass on to his son one day. In a night of torment, his entire world had been shattered and only his memories remained of the love he had known.

Three days later they had found the body of his wife, but his son was never found. Kolin had never given up hope that his boy was still alive, out there somewhere. When he had discovered that the fire seemed to have been set intentionally, it nearly drove him mad.

It had been nearly twenty years ago and still the memory of it pained him as greatly as the moment it had occurred. After that Kolin had spent several years in the military, knowing nothing else to do with life but to try to throw it away for some noble cause. It wasn’t until five years later that he had moved on and found a new place for himself in the world.

He couldn’t remember exactly how or why he had begun wielding the executioner’s axe, but it seemed somehow fitting that he should take the lives of worthless criminals, as if somehow it gained him a measure of revenge for his loss. For fifteen years, Kolin had been an executioner in the city of Gaireln. He had been good at his trade, preferring a swift strike that would hew the head off the criminal quickly, with the least amount of pain. He would ask for a blessing from the Priests before every execution, that the wretch might find peace in the Afterlife.

Today would be his last execution. He had been performing less and less over the past two years, stepping aside often to allow the younger men to learn their trade. Today’s execution was too high profile to allow one of the others to wield the axe. The man to be put to death was one of the filthy Drarihn Sorcerers, that vile group of manipulative power-mongers who turn the wills of strong men like the Gods contrive storms.

Today would be a good execution. Today Kolin thought he might finally find solace in the swing of his axe. It had been said that the Drarihn were moving around Ilinshire in the weeks before that tragic fire that claimed the life of his wife and possibly that of his son. He had long suspected that they were involved, though had no way to prove it and many of the world’s leaders were wound up in their web of deceit and would not even think of substantiating such a claim.

The guilt of this Sorcerer was undeniable and had been proven by the Inquisition. There were several witnesses who had seen him use his dark magic to slaughter guards and priests within the very walls of the Temple of Oberion and throughout the city. It was said that he had also attacked the Jail-tender down in the dungeon just this morning. Kolin had asked that no blessing be made for this Drarihn coward. He deserved to rot in the bowels of Deepest Oblivion for the crimes known and the certain hundreds of crimes he had committed that are not known.

With a sigh, Kolin placed the black hood over his head, covering his entire face, except for two wide slits for his eyes. With the rest of his face hidden, his eyes stared back from the mirror with even more intensity than they had shown before. His last execution was only moments away and it would be the most significant one of his career. The crowd was expected to be nearly half of the city’s population, with important dignitaries from the surrounding lands in abundance.

Kolin turned towards the archway that led outside. He picked up the massive headman’s axe that was lying on a bracket on the wall. After all these years he still marveled at the surprisingly light weight of the enormous axe, though today, perhaps by some odd trick of the mind, Kolin thought that it seemed somehow a little heavier than before. He ran his finger along the blade, taking in a deep breath as he stepped through the arch and made his way to the screaming crowd outside.


* * *


The guards were less than kind to Tilane when the time came for his execution. They bound his hands tightly with some kind of metal cord before they locked shackles around his ankles. The chain between his feet was just long enough for him to take a short step, yet the guards urged him on at a pace that would have required long gates.

He fell many times on the way through the dungeon halls to the outside. Every time he slipped or fell to the floor, the burly guard on the right leaned down and pulled him up by his arms. He thought one shoulder had been jarred out of the socket from the abuse. Tilane had been pushed down one flight of stairs, landing roughly on his side, maybe breaking a couple of ribs. At least, that’s what he guessed the popping sound and searing pain in his side was.

As they neared the large steel doors leading outside of the Keep, Tilane could already hear the crowd gathered there. Apparently the Executioner was a popular one, since they seemed to be chanting a name. Tilane couldn’t quite make out what it was, but the crowd was praising and cheering him tenaciously.

The urge to use his Power crept up inside Tilane, but he restrained it. He had been warned that there were several archers watching him along the way to the execution platform and that to try to escape would lead to more pain before his death. Though pain mattered little to Tilane, he knew that escape now was impossible and that his fate had been decided. He staggered along mindlessly as the guards led him to his death.

When they reached the door the guards hurled Tilane into it instead of using their own hands to push it open. As a result, the prisoner stumbled through the doors as they burst open, fresh blood staining his face from a nose newly broken.

* * *

Kolin stood on the platform, the cheers of the crowd still echoing through the streets. The time was near when the Sorcerer would be executed and a strange feeling was welling up inside him. It was different than being nervous, he had gotten over that ten years and three-hundred executions ago. This feeling was far more ominous to Kolin. He felt wrong, like something was about to happen. He didn’t like it at all, especially now.

The great steel doors of the Keep slammed open and a bloody-faced man came stumbling through, his legs shackled and his arms bound. He was younger than Kolin had thought. He had been expecting someone closer to his own age, maybe even older. Here, instead, was a man looking not yet out of his twenties, yet with the air of a venerable King, despite the blood streaming down his face.

The sorcerer never so much as blinked as he walked the street from the Keep to the platform. His glance was fixed straight ahead and his face was emotionless. Yet, it looked as if he was content. The man was facing death and he looked as if he was happy about it. Kolin couldn’t blame him for that; he had been at that point more than once in his own life when he would have welcomed death.

For the first time, the man seemed to acknowledge the world around him as he made his way up the last stair onto the platform where his life would end. Oddly, though, instead of looking all around at the crowd gathered to watch him die, the Sorcerer simply loooked up to meet Kolin’s eyes. That was a look that Kolin would not forget for the rest of his days.

The Sorcerer’s eyes were deep and thoughtful and they seemed to pierce Kolin’s very soul. He felt vulnerable then, the big man with the headman’s axe and hood over his face, reduced to an insecure child. Those eyes were furious and forceful, yet they seemed to pity the man who held the axe like an anchor to keep him from drifting into madness. As Kolin stood on the platform, trying to look the part of the unflappable executioner, the eyes of the Drarihn Sorcerer seemed to rape him and leave none of his secrets untold. How familiar those eyes seemed to Kolin, yet how strange.

As the Sorcerer was laid down on the dais in front of him, Kolin ripped his gaze away from the man’s wicked eyes. For only a moment Kolin looked away, briefly enough, he hoped that the crowd would not notice. He prayed that they did not see him shaking.

The Sorcerer had ruined everything. This was supposed to be a glorious day for Kolin, making his last and greatest kill. He was going to be loved by the crowd and feared by them, too. He would have the revenge against the Drarihn for their part in his broken life. If they even played any part. Now Kolin was unsure of everything and scared of what he had become.

Had the Sorcerer used some power on him? Or was the power of one man’s gaze strong enough to tear apart another man’s reality? Kolin didn’t know, but he couldn’t afford to let it stop him. His life had taken this path and he would have to follow it to the end. Besides, it was too late to turn back now.

The man was prepared for his execution before Kolin even realized the guards had begun. He looked down at the man laying face-up on the executioner’s block and for the first time felt afraid of what he was about to do. ‘Curse the Sorcerer and his damned mind games!’ thought Kolin. He had never before felt like he might not be able to perform an execution. Today he felt sick from what he was about to do.

Once more, the man turned his gaze on Kolin. This time, though, it was not as if he was trying to tear him apart with his eyes, but more like he was giving the strength to go through with what must be done. In those eyes was pity and compassion, mingled with a look of understanding and the smile that came to the Sorcerer’s lips was enough to tell Kolin that he was at peace with his God. Kolin regretted his decision to forbid the Priests from blessing the Sorcerer. The man was ready to die and with a look he had given Kolin the resolve to make it happen.


* * *


Tilane smiled up at the executioner who was barely able to keep a hold on his axe. For some reason, Tilane had shaken him when their eyes met. Tilane had always known that his eyes held some Power, perhaps a form of Magic, though much more subtle and in some ways much more powerful. It was something he had inherited from his father.

Tilane knew now why the memories of his early childhood had surfaced recently. He wanted to laugh. Fate played games with people like people played games with dice. To come full circle like this was the last thing Tilane had been expecting, but it made him glad to at least uncover the answers to the mysteries that had been plaguing him.

As the executioner seemed to grow stronger with the last look Tilane had given him, he broadened his smile and relaxed, awaiting the stroke of death that would end his lifelong torment. The executioner had finally stopped shaking and was now trying to get a good grip on the axe. He seemed like a schoolchild in a play, unsure of his next line or action.

At last, he managed to get both hands on the axe and slowly lifted it into the air. As the axe made its way over the executioner’s head, Tilane met his smoky, gray eyes.


* * *


The axe that Kolin had used so often for the same task now seemed to weight three hundred pounds. It was all he could do to maintain his hold on it. It was above his head now, waiting for his arms to lower and swing it down to its quarry.

The Sorcerer’s eyes still haunted Kolin as they were locked with his own. They seemed expectant and eager for their light to be extinguished. How could Kolin now resist; it was as if they commanded him to fulfill his given task.

Kolin didn’t remember wanting his arms to swing the axe down, yet they did. The axe sang through the air as it made its way for the neck of the Sorcerer. With his eyes still locked in the gaze of those daunting eyes, Kolin felt as if it took years for the axe to fall. Through the sound of the axe blade slicing the air the Sorcerer spoke. He said one word only, yet that one word was more than Kolin could bear to hear.

“Father.”

Now Kolin understood why those eyes had looked so familiar. They were the same eyes that stared back at him every day in the mirror. He knew that word was no Sorcerous ploy, the eyes told it all. There was no mistaking the man’s words, for they spoke true. He wished that he could stay the strike, that he could stop the axe as it howled through the air, ready to strike the exposed neck of the Sorcerer, his son.

Kolin heard no sound as the axe’s blade tore through the flesh upon the dais, nor as it clanged on the stone, having sheared off the head of his child. He did not look from his son’s gaze as the axe fell and the fierce light in his eyes went dark. Only the sound of his forceful heartbeat pounded inside his head as he collapsed onto his knees. He could not let go of the axe and stared at it, covered in the blood of his son.

A solitary tear made its way down Kolin’s cheek as the light in his own eyes grew dim. Kolin had long held out hope that his son was still alive. That hope had been slaughtered today by his own hand. His heart was broken once more and Kolin thought of all the things that he could have done to change the outcome. Upon the executioner’s platform he knelt and cried, for no matter how much he might have done differently, Kolin knew, somewhere deep down inside, that it was all simply a matter of Fate.