The Diabolical Revenge of Victoria Morrows

Prologue - The Hanging

Victoria always knew she would hang for what she did.

After all, someone had to, if it was going to be a proper revolution.

Still, as she climbed the dais to the gallows and looked over the assembly, she couldn’t see a single person there that seemed happy about it. As was traditional in such matters, she took her place between the arbiter and the executioner. The arbiter, a stone-faced pale man, would recount her crimes, and her executioner, an ox of a man whose face lay hidden beneath a black hood, would carry it out. Head unbowed, she faced the assembly of Sourcemeet, tradesmen and residents of the town that had come for the spectacle. Victoria imagined that it was nowhere near the affair the little lording in his tower had hoped for. A silent tension blanketed the entire plaza, although Victoria noted with satisfaction the soft blue glow that radiated from each resident. It hadn’t all been for nothing, then. She could even see it around the arbiter as he began to speak.

“Victoria Morrows, you stand convicted of crimes against the Academy of the Source. Under normal circumstances, we would recount the nature of your crimes, but they are far too numerous, and you far too dangerous, for us to risk pronouncing them at this assembly. Instead, we will recount only your most grievous, and those that warrant this most just sentence.”

The words sounded stiff. Like an automaton, as if he were reading from a script. Not typical of Arbiter Jonas, who Victoria knew, always had a personal note interjected into his speeches before execution. Especially those he could get behind. This time, it was as if he couldn’t find the words.

A low murmur ran through the crowd. They had noticed it too. Judging by the note of disappointment in it, she knew exactly how the crowd felt about her supposed “crimes”.

“Madam Morrows, you stand here convicted of inciting rebellion, sexual deviance, murder, and perhaps most severe, the wilful breaking of the Third Law of the Flow, not once, but no less than seven times. For these crimes you are sentenced to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, this 18th day of the 1st Winters month.”

The murmurs intensified as Arbiter Jones went on. No doubt the crowd was recalling the nature of her offenses. Expression varied between nods and vigorous shaking of heads.

“Should have been eight!” someone yelled. Victoria couldn’t pinpoint the voice in the crowd, but a few answering cries of “Here Here!” rang out. Victoria wished so too.

“Do you accept your guilt and the judgment of the court in this matter? Be mindful that any words outside of such a declaration, particularly words of power, will be met with the swift carrying out of your sentence.”

The arbiter glanced meaningfully at the rooftops, where long-bowmen were stationed on every roof ringing the plaza. A single untoward word, and Victoria would be a pincushion. A not altogether unbecoming pincushion, but still. To make matters worse, they probably weren’t there just for her. So just this once, she would do as bade.

“My guilt, yes,” she said in a clear voice that echoed through the plaza. “My judgment? Only if every man who committed my crime sees the same judgment.”

The arbiter managed a wry grimace.

“I daresay that for the most part, you have seen to that yourself,” he said in a voice only loud enough for Victoria to hear. The whispers of the crowd intensified and Victoria thought she might have heard a word or two of approval. She took some satisfaction in that.

“With your crimes so recounted,” he said, but his voice suddenly faltered. He looked to her, shaking his head. “So recounted. . .I. I hereby authorize the hangman to carry out your sentence. Though it is perhaps the least joy I have ever taken in such a pronouncement.”

“The feel is mutual, Arbiter, I assure you,” Victoria said. At least she still had a little mirth left to share.

Victoria stepped up onto the stair, her eyes level with the rope. Said mirth quickly vanished as the sight of the rough hemp. Her pulse quickened and her bound hands began to shake. She felt the bitter cold of the morning air more than ever, especially since they had elected to send her out in her execution in nothing more than her usual purple dress. She shivered until she felt a sudden warmth as much larger hands enveloped her own. She felt a sudden friction as the execution worked a knife across her bonds.

“I thought you should fancy a bit of warmth before you go, missus,” said the man. “His expression was invisible behind the mask, but the contrition in his eyes shone clear. “Give us a minute, yeah? Ain’t right for a woman to go trussed up, especially not one such as yerself.”

Victoria nodded as the ropes fell away. The executioner raised a hand to put the rope around her neck, but he stopped halfway through.

“I. . . I can’t do it missus,” he said in a choked voice. “Everyone knows it ain’t right. Not after all ye done fer us.”

Victoria met his eyes.

“You must,” Victoria whispered, putting her own hands on the rope. “Our little lording is watching. Keep my hand warm a little longer, won’t you?”

The executioner nodded, but she could see his eyes were glistening. He put his hands over her own, slipping the rope over her neck. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as he tightened it. Her eyes rose to the top of the keep towering over the plaza. Little lording was watching there. Eager to see her hang but too cowardly to get his hands dirty himself. Just like the rest of them. Scouring them from them Flow had been oh so satisfying.

The executioner met her gaze again.

“I never do my bit without looking me customer in the eyes,” he said. “Ye deserve that much. Are ye ready?”

Victoria nodded.

“Safe travels, missus. And thank ye.” The executioner took his final weighty steps behind her.

She was ready. The only regret she had was that he was still breathing. But judging by the faces in the crowd, she didn’t think that would be a problem for much longer. She held on to the comfort of that thought as the executioner kicked the box out from under her feet.