The Master Executioner (The Executioner's Song Book 5) Read online

  THE MASTER EXECUTIONER

  THE EXECUTIONER’S SONG BOOK 5

  D.K. HOLMBERG

  Copyright © 2021 by D.K. Holmberg

  Cover art by Felix Ortiz.

  Design by Shawn King, STKKreations.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author’s Note

  Series by D.K. Holmberg

  CHAPTER ONE

  The wind caught the rope of the makeshift gallows, leaving it swinging in the late afternoon air. Crows circled overhead, cawing occasionally, and the buzzing of summer insects filled the air. A fly landed on Finn’s arm. He swatted it away, though not before it managed to bite. The stench nearby seemed to attract them.

  He looked out over the small village in the distance. Nestled into the valley such as it was, it would be almost scenic were it not for the gallows serving as a sentry, warning off anyone who might attempt to visit.

  Finn inspected the rope. The knot from the end of it was crudely made without the skill of anyone who had the necessary understanding of what was required to create a hangman’s loop. He paused long enough to trace his fingers around the knot itself. Were he to need to use it, he would have to tie his own. This would serve to snap a neck, though at the height they’d hung it, he wasn’t even certain that would be effective. The loop was too wide as well, so it was possible the condemned would fall free from it.

  At least the branch they’d suspended it from looked solid. Simple, but it would be effective. There wasn’t the need for anything more than a place to fix the rope and a small ladder or step stool for the condemned to climb.

  Getting out of Verendal should have been peaceful for him, though these days it only felt as if there were many things that he neglected by coming out and taking these side jobs. They paid well, especially of late as his reputation had improved, and Finn now made more doing some of these additional jobs than he could’ve in several months before. Still, there was much in Verendal that needed doing, especially now that Meyer had started to show his age. Not that Finn would ever tell him that. Meyer was a proud man and had served the king as his executioner for a long time, long enough that he would be given the opportunity to decide when he was ready to retire.

  Finn guided the horse forward, holding onto the stout mare’s reins as he trudged the last distance into the village. Walking gave him an opportunity to clear his head and prepare for what must be done when he arrived in the village, and it also rested his backside. He still didn’t love riding if he could avoid it, though he no longer suffered the indignity of getting the fattest horse in the stables.

  Coming in the daylight afforded him the opportunity to see the village for himself and to get a sense for the people who lived within it, but it also gave him a chance to gauge how they would react to him. There were too many who saw a hangman and expected only violence.

  The houses within the village were simple. Mostly wooden construction with thatched roofs, there were only a few larger, and they were all toward the center of the village. It looked like most of the villages within the kingdom he’d visited.

  He’d barely reached the outer edge of the village when the first of the villagers noticed him. Finn expected to be noticed.

  The man straightened from where he had been working with a long post, setting it into the ground in front of a house, and he wiped his hands on his pants, eyeing Finn for a moment. He was a large man, solid of build, and could easily have been mistaken for a blacksmith—or within Verendal, one of the palace Archers.

  He said nothing as Finn moved past, though his gaze not only lingered on Finn’s horse, but also on the sword strapped to his back. Finn kept his gaze straight ahead of him. He had learned that was for the best. There was no point in trying to engage any of the villagers in simple conversation. He needed to reach the council. They were the ones who had summoned his services.

  The farther he went along the hard-packed road leading through the village, the more people began to congregate. He heard hushed words around him, things like “hangman” and “killer,” words that Finn had heard in other places and had long ago learned not to take any offense to. Even the procession no longer troubled him the way that it once would have. He was accustomed to people watching him during his work. At least in aspects of his work. Most people had little idea just how much he did, thinking instead that the primary responsibility he had was to carry out the sentencing of the condemned.

  A building near the center of the village caught his eye. It wasn’t any taller than the other buildings, though it was larger, over a hundred paces in either direction. There was no ornamentation along the face of the building, nothing to suggest that he was coming to the village council, or town hall, or whatever they considered this building, but Finn recognized it. He paused outside, tying his horse up to the post, straightening himself and fixing his coat before glancing behind. The people who had been watching his entry into the village turned away from his gaze. It was as if they feared drawing his attention. Finn almost smiled at that. There was no need to fear attracting his attention if they had done nothing wrong.

  He strode toward the door, preparing to knock, when it came open. A younger, golden-haired woman with a long face and thin lips stared out at him. She frowned, glancing over his shoulder before turning back to him, regarding him in full. Her gaze seemed to linger the longest on his sword, though that wasn’t uncommon.

  “I’m Finn Jagger, executioner from Verendal. We received word that you needed the services of the court.”

  The woman watched him for a moment longer before stepping off to the side. “It’s about time. We sent word three weeks ago. Had we known that it was going to take this long to get anybody to come, we would’ve taken care of it ourselves.” She glanced past Finn. “Run along, Tyson. You don’t need to pay any mind to this.”

  Finn glanced back and saw a young boy, probably no more than ten, watching. He paled when Finn turned his attention to him and went racing off down the street.

  He stepped into the town hall. It seemed as if the village of Ironald would have a town hall rather than a council chamber. It was a wide-open space. Massive wooden posts staggered around the inside had lanterns hanging from them, and there was an enormous hearth at one end of the room, though it was darkened and cool. He swept his gaze around, noting the small flag hanging near the hearth, signifying the king’s colors. It was still smaller than the other flag hanging on the opposite side of the hearth, this one in the shape of a wolf.

  “I am sorry I took longer than you anticipated. I came as soon as word reached us in Verendal and I had an opportunity to slip away.”

  Finn had grown accustomed to apologizing for any delay. Outside of larger cities, most of the people felt an urgency to have their summons answered. Finn had come to learn that it wasn’t because they had a thirst for vengeance, at least not most of the time. Usually it had more to do with their inexperience holding prisoners. Rarely did any of these villages have a dedicated place to hold violent prisoners for very long. They had places for minor criminals—thieves, adulterers, and the like—but having a place to hold somebody who was more dangerous was not something that the typical village was equipped to accommodate.

  “You saw the gallows,” the woman said.

  Finn nodded, holding her gaze. “I saw it. Is that the sentence?”

  “The village elders have met and agreed Jonah should hang.”

  “Very well.” He looked around. “Shall I presume you are one of the village elders?”

  He wasn’t certain. She was young, but he’d found that youth often didn’t necessarily mitigate a person’s ability to serve in leadership, especially in these outlying villages. When he turned back to her, holding her gaze, he found her watching him, furrows creasing her brow.

  “I’m Ellen Darlen. I’m the wise woman here.”

  He nodded slowly. “Not one of the elders, then.”

  She shook her head. “Do I look like I would be one of the elders?”

  He resisted the urge to smile. She might not look like it, but she certainly sounded like it. “Why did the village wise woman need to meet the executioner?”

  He watched her, anticipating her answer, but was uncertain what she migh
t say. He honestly had no idea, but the fact that she had pulled the door open to greet him suggested that it had been predetermined to be her. Either that or it had been merely chance. Finn didn’t think so though. With the procession he’d faced coming into the village, he wouldn’t have been terribly surprised that somebody would have run ahead to warn the village elders of his arrival.

  “That damn fool Jonah decided to get tangled up in a gypsum bush while running. I had to make sure he survived long enough to face judgment.”

  A gypsum bush injury could be painful, though Finn had never known it to be fatal. His experience with it suggested that the wounds would be caustic, and a combination of tolthar flower and oland oil would often be enough to soothe it. “I see.”

  She arched a brow at him. “Do you? Do you know what it’s like when a man gets infected with a gypsum bush? Have you seen the way that the redness works beneath the skin?”

  Finn nodded slowly. “I’ve seen it.”

  More than that, he had actually used it a time or two during interrogation. It wasn’t one of the more typical tactics he took while questioning, but occasionally he needed to be creative, especially with particularly challenging captives. There had been a few times when he’d been outside of the city where he had needed to use alternative means of questioning, after all his equipment had failed at the task. Within Verendal, it was a simple thing to bring a man or woman in for questioning. He had places within the prisons designated for such, and it was easy enough to extract the information needed, at least with most. Outside of the city was a different matter. There he had to rely upon what he brought with him—and he preferred to travel light—or on what he could find. It required that he come up with creative measures.

  “I doubt that,” she said. “Most from the city aren’t familiar with gypsum.”

  “I know to be careful with the barbs. They’re small, but the hook on the end can catch in flesh.” It made it useful for other reasons as well. Not only would it catch, but it created the faintest of lines along the skin, barely drawing any blood. It burned as if fire were worked beneath the skin, and that had value to him when performing some of his questioning. “You need to work to clear the oil from clothing, along with skin. It lingers. It can be boiled off, but you need extra lye in order to completely eradicate it from fabric.”

  “That’s right.” She barely managed to hide her surprise.

  “In larger injuries, gypsum can get into the bloodstream. When it does, it can give off the appearance of a fatal wound. The heart slows. Breathing nearly stops. If supported, though, a person can pull through.”

  It was painful but not fatal.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  Finn nodded to her. “As I said, I’m Finn Jagger, executioner to the king.”

  “Do all executioners know so much about gypsum bush?”

  She asked it with a suspicion laced in her words, which left him wondering whether she understood the reason behind the depth of his knowledge. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she understood the purpose he had in using gypsum in that way, or perhaps it was merely suspicion in the knowledge he’d demonstrated.

  “I know about many things. Gypsum bush, only because you mentioned it, but you have quite a few plants around your village that have interesting properties. Why, on my walk into the village, I saw deliander and marson berries.” He’d been tempted to harvest both, as they were difficult enough to acquire within Verendal. The apothecaries he frequented supplied him with most of what he needed but not everything. Unfortunately, they ran into trouble stocking some of the most exotic plants. “Not far beyond your borders I saw pherthal flower and jasmel. There were a few others, but—”

  “I see,” Ellen said.

  He nodded. “Now, as I’ve said, I came here because of the summons. Am I to discuss my needs with you, or do I need to meet with the village elders themselves?”

  She eyed Finn for a moment, and curiosity began to fill him about whether she was going to end up being the person he needed to interact with anyway. It wouldn’t surprise him. A village wise woman had considerable power. In places like this—nearly five days of steady riding south of Verendal, just on the outskirts of the forest and near enough the border to Yelind that he wouldn’t have been surprised if some of the villagers had relatives there—they were isolated from much of the kingdom. Having somebody with the kind of knowledge that a wise woman possessed put her in a position of leadership. At least, it did in almost every place Finn had visited. He suspected the village of Ironald was no different.

  “You can certainly meet with them when they gather at dinner. Until then you are with me. I imagine you intend to visit with Jonah yourself.”

  She might’ve asked it as a question, but she said it something like a statement. Finn smiled to himself. She was far more educated than he had initially assumed. There weren’t many people in the outlying villages who understood that an executioner didn’t simply act on the recommendation of the town leaders. He wouldn’t serve the king very well if he were to do so.

  “I would. Would you mind leading me to him?”

  “I figured you'd want to see him. He’ll probably tell you all about how this was not his fault and that he ended up in the gypsum bush because he was running from some pursuer, but we saw the blood on his hands and found his footprints at the scene. He might think we’re backward and foolish here, but he will face the judgment of the gods regardless.”

  She nodded for him to follow, leading him through the town hall and to a door off the side of it. It was a simple stout wooden door with a heavy lock on it. Ellen fished a key out of her pocket, the metal jangling briefly and reminding him of his time within prisons, and paused before pushing the door open.

  “I will be fine,” Finn said.

  She glanced back at him. “I have no doubt that you will be.”

  “Do you worry for your prisoner?”

  She glanced back at Finn. “He might not be from town, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t protect our own.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “Jonah has been within Ironald for nearly a dozen years. He’s a part of the village. Or he had been before all of this.”

  As she pushed the door to the cell open, Finn realized that he hadn’t even learned what Jonah stood accused of having done. He knew it had something to do with murder—most crimes outside of Verendal that required the services of an executioner were capital offenses, and they were rarely anything as simple as repeated theft. Those criminals were typically just run off so they could continue their crimes in other places. Not like in Verendal or other large cities, where repeated criminals were put through increasing punishments before they either learned their lesson or paid the ultimate price.

  All he’d learned prior to answering the summons was that Ironald had a man accused of murder. He’d been convicted by the village leaders, who had sent a missive to Verendal, the city closest to them, enquiring about the services of an executioner to carry out the king’s justice. Finn might have declined the request were it not for Meyer’s insistence. Now that he’d fully established himself as a journeyman, he didn’t need to answer the call for every small village that wanted an executioner to come, choosing to allow a more junior journeyman to take the assignment, but Meyer claimed he could still manage in Verendal without him, and he was still the master executioner.

  The inside of the cell was a small space with little more than a closet. The lock on the door proved the most important defense, as inside there was only a narrow cot, a basin of water, and a lantern resting near the door for light.

  The man lying on the cot had to be a few years older than Finn, though it could be that he only looked older. He was thin, his eyes drawn, a long beard covering his jawline. He was dressed in rough brown burlap, but it was clean. That was better than many places that Finn visited.