"Form the letters S and C. Hold them close so lovingly. Wrap it round and pinch the space. Poke the end and pull in place. Tug it left then yank it right. Adjust the noose and make it tight. Hold it open to cause a fright. Hang them under pale moonlight."
Culter smiled as he finished tying the knot, eyeing his work with mirthful satisfaction. He tossed the noose beside him, grabbed for more rope and started again, muttering the poem once more.
"Gots to hurry quick now," he said to no one in particular. "Five more knots before they get here. Gots a nice display waiting for them. Ain't that right?" Culter patted the pile of corpses stacked in the cart beside him. "Freshly delivered rebels from my good brothers Civis and Regis. Barely got the stink of death on them. Nice and stiff with rigor. Perfect for a hanging."
Culter finished the knots, tossed them over the cart and started lugging the heavy contraption through the clearing. The magnificent fort appeared as soon as he broke past, towers peaking over the hill like half-drawn swords. The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving a pearly white dew on the grass. Overhead, a full moon winked open as a fat cloud peeled off the midnight sky.
"A fool's moon tonight," Culter said. "How could this night get any better? Those rebels up there won't have to strain their eyes to see my art. Nice and easy."
Culter dropped the cart and set about throwing nooses over several, sturdy branches. Each one he drove a stake into the earth before settling down into the roughest part of the business. Hauling the corpses. With a peevish grunt, he lifted one out of the cart and started dragging it towards the first noose.
"My my, whether you were a popper or a prince, you'll have a proper collar now, my dear dead lord." Culter tapped the corpse on the nose and slipped the noose around its neck. Pulling the rope taut, he took the slack and heaved it with all his might. Even with his corded strength, It took a good while to get the dead man nice and high in the treetop.
Reeling the slack back, Culter tied the excess to the stake, muttering another knot poem he'd learned during his stint as a sailor. "They've got a tune for everything these days," he said to himself. "Wonder if they've got a song for hanging dead men?" Culter shrugged. "Maybe I oughts to make one."
It was a good hour before he'd hanged the other five. By then a stiff breeze had started to pick up, swaying the dead men like wind chimes. When the final knot was tied, Culter stepped back and admired his work, wiping sweat from his pale, bald brow.
"It's hard work to make fine art," he said, mouth twisted in a cruel smile. "As they say, though, it's the work itself that's satisfying. But what is art without admirers? Best hurry and give them a good show." Placing two fingers into his mouth, Culter turned to the fort and let out a jaunty whistle.
It wasn't long before the rebels took notice. Torches quickly gathered along the wooden palisades. Cries of alarm filled the air, spoken in that strange Orienta tongue that sounded like wind whispering into your ear. Soon enough, Culter saw the gates to the fort yawn open, the sound of whickering horses and shouting men following after.
"Best hurry now before they catch me," Culter said as he slithered back into the forest's edge before scurrying up a tree. He pressed himself against the trunk, dark leather armor blending into the wood. With one hand clasped to a branch, he pried open a pouch and dipped two fingers within. They came back out dull and ashy from the charcoal he'd stowed away, and with a few gentle wipes his pasty, albino face was as dark and foreboding as the night itself.
The sound of the horses grew closer by the second, a considerable amount given the dust they'd kicked up. Torchlight winked into existence until the rebels were dimly visible, and oh how Culter reveled at the faces they made. There was truly something satisfying about seeing terror in a man's eyes, face all pinched with worry, mouth slack with horror.
The rebels pulled to a stop before their former compatriots, silent as the grave as they tried to process Culter's art. He wondered if they knew any of the dead personally. Maybe a friend, perhaps, or family? Keeping his smile close-lipped, he slid the stiletto from its sheath and held it close to his heart.
The rebel at the head of the pack, a big man with a long, red top knot, began to bark orders in his native tongue. He pointed a finger at the furthest rider in the back, gesturing towards the corpses.
After a few mutterings back and forth, one of the rebels hitched his horse forward, pulling a thin blade out. With a quick swipe over the rope, the first of the dead men plummeted like a stone, hitting the dirt with a gut rolling crunch. The rebel gave an audible wretch before moving towards the next one.
Right below where Culter stood.
He never saw it coming. Culter jumped from the branch, slamming ass first into the saddle behind the rebel. The man's scream turned into a rattling gurgle as he drove the stiletto up into his lungs. Grabbing hold of the reins, Culter whipped the frightened horse into a frenzy and took off into the forest.
Screams of shock and anger bellowed after him, followed soon by the pounding of hooves. "How noble of your friends to give chase." Culter patted the rebel on the shoulder, but the man merely slumped further into his saddle, blood dribbling out of his mouth. Pressing his lips into a thin frown, Culter pulled the stiletto out, grabbed hold of the reins and jockeyed the horse onward.
It was the big man with the topknot that was first to reach him. He howled after Culter, sword gleaming from thin fingers of moonlight breaking through the forest canopy. Culter pulled hard to the left, the horse braying as it lept over a small stream.
"Just a little bit closer, my friend, and then he's all yours." Culter counted under his breath before he pulled the reins hard. The horse ground to a halt, bucking like mad before he could take back control. The dead rebel, however, had no such luck, sliding off the saddle and hitting the ground like a sack of coins.
Culter noticed Topknot closing in, only to stop just a few strides out of reach. The others saddled up beside him, eyes all wide with furry, their fear long since congealed into rage. Topknot pointed his sword at Culter, snarling something in that wispy language of his.
Culter, however, merely smiled and held his hands up in surrender. The rebel narrowed his eyes before kicking his horse into a whooping gallop.
Choom!
A crossbow bolt the length of a man's arm shot out from the tree line and punched Topknot square in the chest. He flew off his saddle, screaming all the while before he struck the ground hard. He didn't get back up. Horses and men flew into a frenzy as Culter kicked his own steed into action. He reached the closest rebel and opened him up with the stiletto, blood glinting like rubies in the moonlight. Seconds later another bolt whizzed past, catching a rebel in the shoulder and blowing his arm clean off.
The world fell into chaos. Culter jumped off his horse and took a rebel with him, the albino stabbing violently as they both hit the ground. One of the horses reared back, pitching its rider off before kicking another square in the chest. A bolt went streaking past and struck a nearby tree, impaling a rebel like some bloody decoration.
It was over as quickly as it had started. Culter stood up, ready to open up another rebel, but there was no one left now. Only the dead remained, scattered across the ground like tin soldier's abandoned by a child. Most of the horses had run off save for one, the horse he'd stolen calmly grazing next to its dead rider as if nothing had happened.
"My, my. Aren't you just an iron nerved beast." Culter stepped towards the horse, sheathing his stiletto before patting the creature on the neck. "Perhaps I should give you a name. Terror? No, that would just be silly. Ah, Grief, maybe? What do you think of the name Grief?" The horse cocked its ears and continued grazing. "Grief it is then."
Something rustled from the nearby bushes. Culter pulled out his stiletto, ready to open up another rebel but instead Nox appeared wielding that massive crossbow of his over one, sinewy shoulder.
If anyone had ever asked Culter to describe the man, he would have simply called him dark. Dark skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired and dressed in similar dark leathers, the man was darkness personified.
Nox flashed Cutler a full, ivory toothed smile. "Talking to the horses, eh?" His mouth worked awkwardly to speak in the Byzan tongue, a language that all the Vangen shared. Even after three years, the Austerlander was still having trouble sounding out the words.
Culter worked his own mouth, thinking hard on what to say. "Perhaps," was all he could muster. Nido's tits but it was a lot easier talking to horses. Most of the time they just ignored you.
Nox chuckled and rested the crossbow over his other shoulder, eyeing the corpses. "Good catch tonight. Caught a big one. Leader, maybe?" Nox turned over a rebel with his boot, the one with the red top knot.
Culter shrugged. "Maybe."
"Hmm." Nox looked up to where the dead rebel hung from the tree. "It was good work, regardless. Shall we go?"
Culter grunted his approval and took Grief by the reins. The horse gave an inkling of resistance, but with a quick tug the animal relented. They stalked back through the forest, over the stream he'd passed earlie, till the song of groaning rope could be heard faintly in the breeze. Off in the distance, he could just make out the remaining corpses hanging from the branches. He stopped for a moment to admire his work, unlike some people he knew. The other brothers had such weak stomachs for such things. Oh sure, brother Regis could kill and gut and maim as he pleased, but dress a few bodies up in macabre poses and suddenly Culter was the bad guy. Hypocrites, the whole lot of them.
A flash of light shot up from the south, bathing the forest in violet light, casting shadows in all directions. Culter's horse whickered and tugged at the reins, but a few gentle strokes across its flank had the creature calm in no time.
"Magus?" Nox asked, turning to Culter. He merely shrugged. "Guess we should double time it then. The Captain must want something?" Again, he shrugged. "All right. I'll go on ahead then." Nox waved goodbye before cantering off, disappearing into the thicket.
"Oh yes, the Captain must want something indeed. I've only ever seen that flare twice in my life." Culter hooked his foot into a stirrup and saddled the horse. "Both times were never good. Both times a lot of blood was shed." He felt his smile return, brimming with sinister entertainment. "And both times I had a lot of fun."
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