The entire village had turned out to see Denor get hurt, as any small community in a boring part of the universe is bound to do when something of interest threatens to happen. They formed a tight circle around Judging Stump, formerly known as Judging Tree until a mishap with an energy blade. This was the place where justice was meted out and oaths sworn, and when that wasn’t happening it made for a good spot for women to gossip. So really the Judging Stump spent most of its time listening to how much weight people had put on and who was sleeping with who. Were the stump alive, it would also find this particular judgement traumatic, as it involved the creation of another stump.

Near the stump, swaying with the appropriate amount of alcohol given the foregone conclusion, stood Ledo. His posture was relatively upright but that looked like it could change at the slightest gust of wind. Though his face was dark with grief and shame, his eyes burned with anger, and his head remained unbowed. Nobody could tell if it was fury at his son, or over the decision of the elders.

Denor was brought forth and stopped a few steps away from his father at the sight of his gaze. The warriors who had been guarding him in the cell now flanked him, gripping the hilts of their swords and letting a trickle of energy spark into life. Denor felt a flicker of pride—he was being guarded like a dangerous enemy! They were actually using their energies in case he made a move! But pride quickly gave way to bitterness and impatience. How much longer would they wait? They should just get it over with! His right hand itched unbearably, as if anticipating its fate.

Old Hevath, dressed in his finest, raised his hand for silence. The talking, shouting, and laughing ceased, for it appeared that the man was sober for a change. Careful deliberation with the most boring of his peers does that to even the most merry of souls.

“Brothers,” Hevath began slowly, “we gather today at this place to cast judgement on one of our own. Denor, son of Ledo the gunsmith, an integral part of community, was caught last night in a most shameful act. He tried to rob our fellow Andronian, the respected healer Litarn, and failed miserably. We all know the punishment for a thief that’s .”

“We know…” the crowd murmured in anticipation, enjoying the participation section of this speech like a panto. Denor saw few friends, though that was largely his own fault.

Among them was Gella, and the little traitor Podrig. Were they also muttering “We know” like some demented chorus? Or were they standing silent, eyes downcast on the withered and long-suffering Andronian grass? He couldn’t quite make out how they had responded.

“According to our laws,” Hevath continued, “anyone who steals from a fellow tribesman loses his right hand and is banished from the village. Is that not so?”

“Aye, so it is!” the crowd echoed, getting far too into the spirit of the occasion.

“We all know this, Hevath!” a cheerful voice called out. “Enough with the speeches! Get on with it!”

“Do not rush me,” the old man replied with dignity. “From early morning until noon, we have debated whether Denor, son of Ledo, should face the usual punishment for thieves or a different one.”

“Different? Why different?” the crowd buzzed with confusion.

“I’ll explain. Firstly, Denor has not yet reached the age of manhood. He is only thirteen and has never undergone the trials. Given Denor’s… capabilities, it may be some time before he passes them. He is not yet a man, but still a boy. Do we have the right to punish him to the fullest extent?”

The crowd’s voices were divided, this wasn’t part of the entertainment and left them confused.

“Yes, we have the right! If he is old enough to steal in the night, he is old enough for punishment! Babies and young children do not sneak into houses at night! He is grown, Hevath! Grown!”

“Spare him, Hevath!” others cried. “He is small and exceedingly stupid, even for his age! You cannot punish children as you do adults!”

Denor scanned the familiar faces of his fellow tribesmen, their mouths agape, eyes either blazing with anger or brimming with sympathy. He found it intriguing to discern who among them desired his execution and who called for mercy. It wasn’t always easy to identify the voices clearly. Many of the women demanded severe punishment, while many of the men, rough and threatening, insisted he was just a misguided child. It was peculiar. Many of the boys, who were much more familiar with who Denor was, were yelling, “He’s grown, grown, Hevath!” They were of course entirely correct in suggesting that Denor’s exile would improve the village, even if their reasons for shouting were flawed.

"And secondly," continued old Hevath, unfazed by the noise, "we could not ignore the plea from Litarn himself. Yes, Litarn, a man revered by us all, whom Denor sought to rob. His generous heart does not crave revenge. He has requested, yes, requested that we do not impose such harsh measures on the boy that would mar his entire future, however unpromising that may be."

Denor’s ears burned with disbelief, waiting for his brain to catch up. That old demon Litarn had asked for mercy on his behalf? The man’s heart, which he thought would be brimming with a thirst for vengeance, had instead called for him to be spared? Denor’s head spun, trying to make sense of it all, why would the sorcerer want to keep him in the village? Surely having him exiled worked in his favour!

He spotted the old man in the front row, dressed modestly, without his usual stones and opulent robes. Only a clutch of gems adorned his neck. His entire demeanor spoke of humility and weary kindness, his wrinkled fingers playing with the fringe of his robe.

"Tell them, Litarn," Hevath urged. "I fear they might not believe me." Indeed, it was hard to fathom that the victim of the theft would plead for leniency.

“Yes, I ask you to have mercy on this boy,” Litarn said softly, contritely. “Despite his stature and strength, he remains a child in mind. He did not grasp the shame he was bringing upon himself and his worthy father by sneaking into my house at night. I ask you to have mercy on him.”

Mouths, respectable and bearded, gaped open, not to mention those of the youths and women. Even those who had called for leniency were astonished. Such forbearance was unheard of in their harsh world. If anyone else had requested mercy for an enemy, they would have been met with scorn and derision. But no one dared laugh at the healer, such was his reputation within the community.

“Well, if Litarn asks for it... Let him not cut off the boy’s hand... Let him not be banished...” they mumbled, the voices of the collective muddled, those demanding punishment now confused.

“Of course, his act cannot go unpunished,” Hevath resumed, puffing up with importance and strutting around like a pigeon about to mate. “After much deliberation, we have decided that it would be just for the one who gave him life, who should have guided him better, to deliver his punishment. Denor’s father, Ledo, will administer ten lashes.”

The crowd roared with agreement and satisfaction, they had come to see pain and torture and they jolly well were going to get it!

"That’s right... of course... Since there is no mother, the father must... Ledo’s hand is strong, if somewhat inebriated; he can manage it."

Ten lashes! Denor nearly jumped for joy like the giddy child he was. Just ten lashes! His hand, warm and dear, would remain with him! His home, his village, would still be his. Denor sucked in his cheeks and furrowed his brows to conceal his overflowing glee. Ten lashes!

A whip was placed in Ledo’s hand, and Denor began to realise that his father had a very strong arm.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Denor’s guards brought him over, roughly pushing him to bend over by the stump and stripping his back. Turning his head, Denor peered through his brows at the faces of what he had hoped were going to be silent, captivated fellow villagers. Instead they were cheering and chanting for the lashes, which didn’t sit well with him in the slightest.

He was interested in only one face—the wrinkled, malevolent features of the sorcerer. He had expected the old man to be contorted with malicious glee and chanting along with the crowd. But he was wrong. Litarn wasn’t looking at him at all. Judging by his gaze, the old man’s eyes were fixed firmly on Denor’s father.

The first lash struck Denor’s back with a resounding crack. He screamed and flinched, tears coming to his eyes. Only a brief, bitter thought flashed through his mind: his own father wouln’t possibly be whipping him with his full...

The second blow landed harder. Litarn’s unyielding gaze never left Ledo’s face. Denor nearly twisted his neck trying to see his father, then realised that staring at the whip made the expectancy of the pain even worse. His lips formed a hard line, and his eyes... They were absorbed in the old man’s stare, even as his chalky mask of a face remained fixed on his son’s back…

Was it truly possible that the strength and cruelty with which his father wielded the whip were drawn, like through an invisible thread, from those sharp eyes, two white claws latched onto him and dipped in the deadly poison? His dear father, who had always loved him and… okay, well, tolerated… His dear father, who technically lived in the same house and was obligated by duty to care for him.

Ledo raised his hand for the third blow and Denor remembered that he was getting whipped.

The third crack left Denor on the verge of trying to escape, as useless as the attempt would be. He continued to whimper and howl, covering himself in shame forever. His blurry eyes looked straight at the sorcerer’s face through tears. Hatred burned through him and squeezed his throat as he shouted. "Hey, you! Pathetic, filthy sorcerer! You asked for mercy? I know the truth! I will kill you unless I am whipped to death!"

This once again proved that while Denor technically knew the words to say, he also managed to sputter them out at exactly the wrong times to say them.

With each shout, the blows seemed to grow fiercer, but it was the blow that followed the imaginative "I will destroy you!" that struck with such pain that Denor lost consciousness.

Ledo frowned at his son lying face-down on the stump. “Is he faking it? I was just getting warmed up.”

***

Through a cloudy, stuffy veil of sleep, Denor heard voices around him—contrite, sympathetic, malicious—and among them, he heard his father’s tones.

"Is that really possible for him to pass out so quickly? I know he’s not made of the sternest stuff, but really?”

Well, that was a great vote of confidence.

“He’s just a boy, not a man fully grown,” came the more sympathetic voice of Hevath.

“Ah well, everyone step back! I’ll try to revive him if I can."

That last voice was Litarn’s, the sorcerer had stuck around after the lashings. This boded ill for Denor, even he could figure that out.

He felt streams of warm water pour onto his burning back, a woman running a healing device over it to knit the flesh. They rubbed his temples and breathed on his eyelids. The voices grew clearer, and his head began to clear. Denor was ready to open his eyes and shout something suitably heroic at the sorcerer.

"Your foul plan to have me whipped to death by my own father has failed!"

But then he felt his teeth being pried open by strong, clawed fingers, and a burning, bitter liquid was poured into his mouth.

“Now, now, let’s coax the lad back to consciousness,” murmured a gentle voice. “If this concoction doesn’t help him, then, well, there’s nothing more we can do... Ledo, you didn’t need to be so vicious with your strikes, they might yet be the death of the poor boy…"

“What a terrible shame,” slurred Ledo.

Denor wanted to spit out the bitter liquid and shout that the old man was poisoning him. He didn’t have time, the potion had already slithered down his throat and settled in his stomach. A peculiar numbness spread through his entire body. He could no longer feel his arms, legs, or even his back, which had been blazing with pain moments before.

No, wait, the healing scanner had sorted that. Why was he struggling to think? He grasped at thought but they all seemed to float away. More so than usual. Only a flicker of consciousness remained under his forehead.

“This must be the very spark of life,” Denor thought dully. “The thing that persists when everything else has faded…”

***

Denor could not budge an arm or leg, he couldn't even flutter an eyelid. Breathing? Not a chance. The poison Litarn had slipped him rendered his muscles as useful as a lump of day-old porridge, lifeless and cold. The villagers undoubtedly saw this as an improvement, as they no longer had to deal with Denor in their day-to-day lives, but he was too accustomed to being marginally more efficient than day-old porridge. On a good day.

The villagers would probably dispute that too, but that was neither here nor there. Plus they hadn’t technically tested if Denor could be bested by porridge, so the jury was still out on that. The point is there was no porridge in this vicinity.

But hear, he could. Feel, he could. Realize, oh, he did. Eventually.

His father's voice reached him, weaving through the numbness. He sat beside his son's unmoving body for what seemed like an age and then some. Occasionally, he'd clasp his cold hand, when he wasn’t clutching the bottle, as if his touch could ignite warmth, revive him, turn his frozen blood into flowing life. Denor strained every fiber to twitch a finger, to signal his presence, but his fingers refused to heed his command. Useless lumps of sausage that lacked any sort of dexterity, and that was before he was paralysed by the sorcerer.

"Why did you leave, Denor?" Ledo's voice sliced through the silence, dark as a starless night. "It was only a few lashes, I’ll never live down this disgrace. And even though I’m free of you at last, what of my pain? My son became a thief who got caught, the lowest of the low. What am I to tell Tycho? Did you give up on life to escape that shame? If so, I understand. I might well join you...”

There was a lingering pause.

“...eventually, there’s no rushing these things. Anyway, I forgive you, my son, if you left out of shame. I forgive your ineptitude, your stupidity, your irritation. I forgive the countless times you got in the way or failed to do as I asked or fell over and broke something precious in my workshop. I even forgive you for that incident with the blaster and the toilet."

Denor heard the men approach, their voices gruff and insistent that the boy's body be buried. Dead should not linger unburied, they said. One of them complained about the prisoner poisoning his mind and that he shouldn’t speak to him. Ledo's silent gaze was enough to send them away, for a time.

"You’ve really given Tamet a puzzler in the great beyond, haven’t you, my son?" he stated to Denor’s prone form. "Tamet only honors those who display the slightest bit of trickery or luck at some point in their lives. I don’t think he’s going to receive you very well.”

He heard disappearing footsteps, but they were a footnote to what had been a damning condemnation of everything that he was by his own father.

With nothing to do but lie there completely immobile in the snow, even Denor’s mind could mull over what was said.

He needed to be better. Not just for his father, but for himself. But first? He needed to learn how to move again.

***

In the evening, the men returned, they took Denor's body, wrapped it in rough cloth, and carried it to the cemetery, to the waiting grave.

Denor had a bad feeling about this.

Other voices swirled above his shrouded body. They were burying him alive and they didn’t even realise.

The saccharine tones of the ever-present sorcerer caught his ear more persistently and loudly than any other. He lamented, sighed, chided Ledo for not restraining his fury. He berated himself for not being persuasive enough to convince the men to spare the boy the lashes that killed him. Denor seethed with impotent rage, the only form of rage he was capable of. If he had strength for a single motion, it would have been to spit in that hypocrite’s face.

This proved that Denor’s brain was unaffected by his supposed death, since spitting at a man while covered in a shroud was only going to end one way.

And then, another voice, thin and desperate, cut through the fog. Just as his body was lowered into the ground.

"He was not a thief!" Gella's voice rang out. "You shouldn't have punished him! He tried to save everyone else, and you... you killed him! Now Charan won't come back to us! Why, why did you believe the sorcerer?!"

"Shut up, you daft girl!" the boy longed to shout, after correcting her about the boy’s name being ‘Choron’. Or was it Charan? He was beginning to have doubts, but he couldn’t voice them as his tongue lay in his mouth as useless as the rest of him had been for the past thirteen years.

“Poor child, her mind's completely addled... Losing her fiancé, and now this nonsense of a death... But I will try to heal her... Don't despair, my dear...” a sugary voice grated, while Gella's cries rose above it, as she fought off the hands of the furious women. Denor heard them dragging her away from the open grave and off to wherever Litarn suggested.

Then came the worst part. Clods of earth landed on his chest, his stomach, his face shrouded in cloth. They pelted him, each one a sharp, stinging reminder of his helplessness, as if his enemies were hurling stones at him. Again.

Denor summoned one last, gut-wrenching effort to cry out, “Don’t bury me! I'm not quite dead yet!” but not even the faintest whisper escaped his lips.

The clay pressed against his mouth and nostrils, the relentless, cold weight of the earth settling on his chest. Denor began to choke, the agony of suffocation engulfing him. Yet, not a single muscle in his body twitched, not a single sound broke through his pale lips.

Was he actually dead?