Arthur forced a grim, blood-stained smile. "You are afraid," he whispered hoarsely. "You aren't afraid of the Crown... you're afraid of your master's own brother. You know Liam would never tolerate this. He is a man of honor; you are just a parasite feeding on his reputation."
Colin's face twisted in fury. He lashed out again and again, the whip cracking in the damp air, leaving bloody welts across Arthur's arms and chest. But Arthur did not break. He retreated into his own mind, finding strength in his memories. He thought of his quiet study in the capital. He thought of his loyal servant, Simon, who was hopefully waiting safely at the inn. And most importantly, he thought of Martha. He pictured her sitting by the window in the moonlight, knitting the tiny garments for their unborn child.
I promised you I would bring justice to this dark place, my love, Arthur thought, the pain fading into a dull, distant throb. I cannot fail. I will not break.
Realizing physical pain was not going to break the Magistrate, Colin threw the bloodied riding crop into the dirt in frustration. He spat at Arthur's feet and stormed out of the stable, the heavy wooden doors slamming shut and plunging Arthur into near darkness.
Meanwhile, inside the luxurious confines of the main house, Bartholomew Thorne was experiencing a very different kind of agony. He was sitting behind the massive mahogany desk in his private study, his hands shaking so violently that the liquor in his crystal glass sloshed over the edges.
The initial rush of adrenaline and anger had faded, leaving behind a cold, paralyzing terror. He had captured a Magistrate. A direct representative of the King.
Barto downed the amber liquid in a single gulp, the burn doing nothing to soothe his nerves. "Ned! Toby!" he bellowed.
Two terrified servants scrambled into the room. "Y-yes, Master Thorne?"
"Bring me the heavy whiskey. The imported barrels. Now! And leave the bottles!"
As the servants scurried away, Barto paced the room, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. "Killing an official is rebellion," he muttered to himself, pulling at his hair. "It's not like killing a peasant or a rival thug. It brings the military. It brings the gallows. But if I let him go, he'll bring the constabulary down on my head anyway. I'm trapped! The bastard trapped me in my own home!"
The door creaked open, and Colin slithered inside, locking the heavy brass bolt behind him. The Rat moved to the desk and calmly poured himself a glass of the newly arrived whiskey.
"Have you lost your nerve, Master?" Colin asked softly, taking a sip.
"Nerve? This isn't about nerve, you idiot!" Barto snapped, throwing his empty glass at the fireplace, where it shattered into a hundred sparkling pieces. "This is about survival! We have crossed an invisible line tonight. If we execute him, we are signing our own death warrants."
Colin set his glass down and moved closer, his voice dropping to a hypnotic, persuasive murmur. "Master Thorne, listen to me. We are already past the point of no return. You cannot release him. You heard his fanaticism. If you let him walk out of those gates, he will not rest until your wealth is seized, your lands are burned, and your neck is stretched in the town square."
Barto sank into his leather chair, holding his head in his hands. "I don't know what to do. The risk is too immense."
"I searched his belongings," Colin continued, pulling a small leather satchel from his coat and tossing it onto the desk. "He is an arrogant fool. He brought no official seal, no letters of authority. Just astrology books and blank parchment. He wanted to play the spy."
Colin leaned over the desk, his eyes burning with a dark, sociopathic intensity. "This is a blessing in disguise, Master. If he has no proof of identity on him, and he vanishes in the dead of night, who can prove he was ever here? The roads to Oakendell are dangerous. Bandits, wolves, treacherous cliffs. A traveling mystic simply lost his way and was never seen again. It happens every day."
Barto looked up, his piggish eyes bloodshot. "Are you certain? What if he sent a message back to his servant?"
"I will send our best trackers to scour the inns by the border tomorrow morning," Colin assured him. "If he brought a servant, we will silence him too. But tonight, we must deal with the immediate threat. We must sever the head of the snake. If you do not kill him, Master, he will kill you."
Colin paused, letting the silence stretch, before delivering his final, poisoned barb. "And think of your brother, Liam. If Liam hears a Magistrate was tortured in your stables, he will not defend you. He will likely drag you to the gallows himself to preserve his twisted sense of 'honor'. We cannot let this leak out."
The mention of his brother was the final push. The fear of the law was abstract, but the fear of Liam's righteous fury was absolute. Barto's cowardice finally crystallized into a desperate, murderous resolve.
"You're right," Barto whispered, his voice trembling. He reached for the bottle and drank directly from the neck, the raw alcohol burning a fiery path down his throat, drowning the last remnants of his conscience. The liquor ignited a false, roaring bravery within his chest. "We end him tonight. No traces. No evidence."
Barto stood up, his massive frame swaying slightly from the heavy drinking. His eyes were wide, glassy, and completely devoid of humanity. "Toby!" he roared toward the door.
The servant scrambled back in.
"Go to the armory. Fetch the Executioner's Cleaver. The heavy iron one with the leather grip. Bring it to the courtyard."
"Yes, Master!"
The midnight air was freezing. A relentless, icy rain had begun to fall, turning the dirt of the courtyard into a slick, treacherous mud. The darkness was pushed back only by the sputtering orange glow of pitch torches held by a dozen of Barto's most loyal, tight-lipped guards.
The heavy wooden doors of the stable groaned open. Four men dragged Arthur Pendelton out into the rain. He was exhausted, shivering violently, his clothes torn and stained with blood from Colin's whip. Yet, when they forced him to his knees in the center of the muddy courtyard, he refused to slump forward. He forced his spine straight, lifting his chin to face his executioners.
Barto Thorne stood before him, the rain plastering his expensive silk clothes to his massive body. In his right hand, he held the Executioner's Cleaver—a terrifying, broad-bladed weapon designed for one singular, brutal purpose. The firelight danced across the cold, sharp steel.
"You brought this upon yourself, Pendelton," Barto slurred, his breath pluming in the cold air, thick with the stench of whiskey. "You should have stayed in the capital. You should have minded your own business. Now, your arrogant crusade ends in the mud, and no one will ever know your name."
Arthur looked at the massive blade, then up into Barto's bloodshot eyes. There was no fear in the Magistrate's expression—only a profound, pitying disgust.
"You can swing that blade, Bartholomew," Arthur's voice rang out, remarkably clear and steady over the sound of the pouring rain. "You can sever my head and bury my body in the darkest corner of your cursed lands. But you cannot bury the truth. I am a man of the Crown. By murdering me, you seal the doom of your entire bloodline."
Arthur took a deep breath, the cold air filling his aching lungs. He projected his voice so every guard holding a torch could hear him clearly.
"You are a coward who hides behind thugs and shadows. Your brother is a man of honor, but you are nothing but a thief and a butcher. Strike me down, tyrant! Strike me down, and know that my blood will be the flood that washes your wicked empire away! I die serving the light, while you will live the rest of your pathetic, short life jumping at every shadow!"
The defiance, the utter lack of fear in the face of certain death, infuriated Barto beyond reason. He let out a deafening, animalistic roar. He gripped the heavy cleaver with both hands, his massive shoulder muscles bunching as he raised the weapon high above his head. The steel caught the lightning of the storm, gleaming with the promise of death.
Arthur Pendelton did not close his eyes. He stared the monster down, ready to embrace the dark.
The blade began its descent.