On the day of an execution, an hour before the deed was due to take place, every church across the city would ring out to announce the upcoming demise of a sinner, accompanied by three dozen criers who would crawl the streets of each city ward and blare their own metallic chime.

Holsley couldn’t stand the ringing.

The young bard tossed this way and that way in his bed, threw a feather-filled pillow over his ears to deafen himself, but couldn’t quite shake the melancholy sound. He hadn’t been able to stand them as a child, and he could stand them less now. They marked death, that someone was going to die in an hour, and he didn’t like what that fact brought out in people.

‘Bloody bells,’ he muttered under his breath, trying to find his dream again. ‘Just shut up.’

Then, aroma hit him.

A wonderful, sizzling, scintillating symphony of smells rising from the kitchens. It was morning breakfast dressing up for patrons. The sultry aroma of bacon and sausages frying in the pan, of beans boiling in the pot, and of, no doubt, freshly baked bread being taken out of the oven and lightly buttered. Holsley sat up immediately at his stomach’s command.

When was the last time he had even eaten? Must have been just before he’d shot off to the Crooked Hat Inn.

The bells were still ringing. They had followed him from his half-sleeping state, but it was only now that he became aware of them. Wait! A sudden panic clutched hold of his chest. What day was this? Roland was due to be hung on the sixteenth, right? Was that today? No, it couldn’t be. Holsley had arrived yesterday on the twelfth.

Quickly, the bard rushed to his bedroom window. Below, just beneath the ledge, a crowd had formed in the street. Mostly commonfolk marching together in a steady stream heading towards the main road that would lead to the keep. Children bounced about excitedly whilst older strangers whispered in hushed but eager tones.

He raised an eyebrow.

If Holsley had been bolder, perhaps he would’ve just asked the crowd where they were heading. As he was now, however, the bard didn’t have the stones to turn the eyes of the passersby upon him. It’d be almost as bad as performing in front of them. So, instead, he simply watched them.

Perhaps, he hoped, someone else was being hanged today, but his stomach was folding in on itself.

It was a dreadful form of entertainment and not one that sat right with Holsley. As a young boy, no older than ten, he had only ever been to one of these executions. It was curiosity that had carried him there but revulsion that kept him from ever going back. People had cheered with genuine excitement to see some poor stranger drop to their death, and it had made him physically sick.

Holsley couldn’t remember the criminal’s crimes or even their name, but the stark vision of the man’s shirt and face stained with the rotten vegetables the crowd had thrown before he dropped was forever burned into his mind. He got it, though. Really, he did. These people, primarily murderers and tactless thieves, probably didn’t deserve sympathy.

It still felt tasteless to sink to that level, though. After all, it was important to remember that these souls were about to pay dividends on their sins.

Finally, a crier emerged alongside the crowd.

These men, who often wore powdered wigs and carried small ringing bells, were responsible for keeping Tressa informed. There was only so much a printed paper could do in a city where half the people couldn’t read. They roamed about the roads, ringing the bell and shouting what the betters thought people ought to know.

‘Hear ye, hear ye!’ The man bellowed as he strode on by. ‘The hanging of one Roland Darrow, infamous pirate and lost son of Tressa, has been moved up by three days. All appeals have been counted, and the scoundrel remains guilty. For those who wish to see this dastardly villain hang, you must make their way to the keep’s square with fervour. For today is his day to hang.’

The young bard had never known he could get dressed so quickly. He pulled on the only shirt that wasn’t ripped to shreds, threw up his trousers, yelled obscenities at his boots, and didn’t leave without the ring or the lute.

Then, he was off and out of the window.

Roland was being hung. A panic overcame him as the redrose lute swung wildly on his back. Twang this and thwock that. Would he be too late to rescue Roland? Was Roland in the dungeon and could he get the ring to him? What was he supposed to do now?

He did the only thing he could do — run.

It wasn’t long before the crowds became the main obstacle. There was no getting past them without a miracle. Fortunately, Holsley realised pretty quickly that he didn’t need to. The bard rushed into the alleys, found the scaffolding in there, and managed to reach the rooftops with some careful footing.

Next thing he knew, he was springing across the roof tiles. To any below who saw him, they must’ve thought he was terribly afraid of missing the execution for the hurry he was in. If he slipped, he got back up. If something was in his way, he would clumsily vault over it. And if he heard a shout from below shouting vulgarities at him, then he’d simply ignore it.

Holsley had to get to the keep before they closed the gates. He knew there’d be no chance of getting inside if he didn’t. That meant there’d be no chance of saving Roland. The young bard didn’t quite know what he would do when he got there, but he wouldn’t be able to do anything without slipping inside the keep’s courtyard.

***

Roland had heard of the five stages of grief. They were supposed to be like the steps you took to come to terms with your inevitable death. Starting with denial until you finally reach acceptance. Roland thought then that he was still at the initial step. Did you go through all of them when you were destined for the noose, or were the five stages just for people who had the time?

The rogue was just in denial. Had been since he’d first arrived back in Tressa. Even now, as he faced the doors and heard the barks of the crowds on the other side, he was still fairly confident that he wouldn’t be dying today.

‘This might be your last chance.’ Kythos was behind him. ‘Want to trade your life for some information?’

Roland didn’t answer.

‘You’re funeral,’ he chuckled. ‘You ready then?’

‘I am,’ said Roland as other tubheads pushed on the doors. ‘It’s the lot of you that ain’t ready.’

They had gone a step further in chaining him this time. For one thing, the chains were heavier and thicker. That wasn’t half as annoying as the fact that there was no lock and no key. The manacles had been welded around his ankles and wrists. It’d take three strong people about three days of work to saw him out of his bonds with smithing tools.

A hand pushed Roland into a forward march.

The sun lashed out at his eyes as if he were seeing it for the first time. This was followed by a refrain of jeers from the battered faces of his awaiting audience. They were packed in tightly, from what he saw once his eyes adjusted to the light, reaching from one end of the courtyard to the other — a sea of angry faces with nothing better to do than watch him struggle for life.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Things were thrown as he drew nearer. Rotten fruits and vegetables, glass bottles, small and large stones, alongside other things not worth mentioning. Insults were the most frequent method of assault, however. Roland had never heard so many shots taken at his vivid red hair before. Some of them sounded less angry and more jealous of his vibrant hair tone.

Roland took the abuse stoically.

The tubheads led him like a dog to the rickety wooden platform, his manacles clacking with every step. Roland offered no resistance, but that didn’t mean he’d been subdued. The rogue was still waiting for a good opportunity, but with this many guards and his hands bound like this, an opportunity wouldn’t be easy to come by.

If Roland had taken a good look at the gallows, he’d see they towered above him. The only thing he noticed, however, was the noose. It hung down at about head height. In a minute, maybe less, he’d be hanging from that thing.

Was Holsley here? Roland looked out and scanned the crowds. Nothing. When he turned back to the gallows, he noticed a couple of tubheads testing to make sure the hatch worked. Roland didn’t care. He wondered again if Holsley had done it and felt sure he had. It might’ve been a good plan if his sentence hadn’t been moved up.

It was better, ring or no, that Holsley wasn’t here. At least he wouldn’t have to stare into the bard’s innocent eyes as feelings of guilt clutched at every part of his body. That was the only small mercy in this otherwise bleak situation. Roland would never have to be truly honest with him.

Being here now, in front of the crowds, the noose dangling mere feet away, he felt his first pang of genuine fear. Maybe this was about to happen. Maybe he was actually about to die. He looked up to the sky, eyes narrowed and whispered in a low voice. ‘You promised.’

Without saying a word, Kythos grabbed him about the shoulders and marched him to the trap door once his feet were squarely on the platform. From there, he was placed into position. The noose came down, and when he looked over, he saw the executioner, face hidden beneath a cloth mask.

The bells came to a stop. The Crier of Proceedings to his left proceeded to read out a list of Roland’s supposed crimes to the crowd. The first was desertion of the Tressan Navy, which he could admit to doing, but the rest sounded made up. Almost as if they had created new laws just to penalise him.

The young rogue’s eyes met with Kythos’s. The tiefling gave him a look which said, ‘Seriously, this is your last chance to step up.’ Roland gave him a reply that was far shorter and too crude to reveal in the presence of polite company.

***

THROOM.

The gates to the courtyard came to a shuddering close, and Holsley was grateful to have found himself on the other side when it happened. Even though he was pressed face to shoulder with the people around him, they didn’t seem to notice that he was hacking his lungs out and coughing up a storm.

Holsley hadn’t stopped running since he had jumped out of the window. Three miles easy at a full pace had taken its toll.

When he had composed himself, he dared to look up. A wall of people, thick with barely a gap to see through, stood between him and the stage. There must have been hundreds of them in the mass with no clear path to the gallows.

Holsley could listen, however, as he made very slow progress past the caucus of strangers. When they erupted into a cacophony of boos and taunts, he gathered that Roland had been brought out.

There was no way to see him, though. Holsley was below average height for someone his age, and even if he weren’t, he’d have no chance. How, exactly, was he going to stop this if he couldn’t even see it happening?

‘Just get to the front,’ he told himself. There’d be plenty of time to devise a reasonable plan, but for now, he needed to be ahead of the queue. That was the challenge, of course. It’d be easier to squeeze through the brickwork of a rigid stone wall than this damnable crowd. Whenever he pushed past one person, two more appeared to block his way.

Only when a rather rude tiefling knocked him back was he roused from his macabre feelings. Holsley squinted. It was the woman from the market! The one that had almost run Holsley over and subsequently given him the finger.

‘That does it,’ he said.

Holsley stared down at the glinting shine of the ring as he brought it out from his pocket. Roland had wanted it because, he said, it allowed him to slip through tight gaps, like the bars of a prison cell, or maybe, just maybe, Holsley thought, the gaps between a tightly packed crowd.

***

After the long, pointless list of charges was read, Roland was given a moment to compose himself. Even in a city like Tressa, people recognised that everyone is entitled to at least a second of respect as they deliberate over their forthcoming death.

Roland sighed — he couldn’t see Holsley. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved.

The wind blew about him. It was starting to get cold now. Summer was shedding its skin and giving way to proper autumn. Still, there were signs of it. The sky was cloudless, the sun was bright, and there were still green leaves on the trees, though they were in the minority.

It was funny. Roland couldn’t help thinking about how lucky he was to be hung on such a nice day. He’d spent a month in that rowboat, wishing the sun would go away, and the last week in a dingy cell, hoping it would come back.

‘Do you have any last words?’ The noose came down over his head and was pulled tight around his neck. Enough that he wouldn’t come loose but eased enough that it wasn’t outright choking him. Kythos had asked, but Roland had barely noticed.

The crowd quietened and leaned in eagerly.

At first, he thought he wouldn’t say anything. They didn’t want it, and he didn’t want to give it. Then, he thought, why shouldn’t he?

‘You want me to say a few words!?’ Roland bellowed towards them, and the crowd hushed.

In his experience, the last words of a doomed sinner always reached eager ears. People love them. They discuss their meaning over foaming mugs in much the same way people enjoy discussing poetry. Sometimes, secrets are revealed, which gives the gossips something to gossip about.

‘My name is Roland Darrow, and, like many of you, I was born in this very city. You’ve all been brought here for the same reason, but I’ll recount why for those who were swept up by the crowd. You are here to watch me die by way of hanging, and honestly, I can’t blame you for that. While bleak, it’s about the only good entertainment this city can offer.’

There were mutterings of agreement.

Roland suddenly noticed the children sitting at the front. Little boys and girls no older than eight looked up at him with a sense of wonder. They wouldn’t have looked any different if they had been watching a colourful puppet show in the markets.

It boiled Roland’s blood.

‘So, it saddens me to say that I’m very sorry to disappoint you all!’ Roland shouted and then gave them a sly smile. A knowing smile. Confused mutters rang out amongst the crowd as they looked at one another. ‘I’m afraid you’ve all made the trip up for nothing. You see, no one is going to die here today and not in the least me. I don’t know why you were gathered or even why the bells were rung, but you’ve been deceived. For me, today is only the start, not the end. My adventure has only just begun.’

A chorus of laughter erupted across the crowd. Starting at the front until it reached far in the back. Even the tubheads were exchanging chortles. Roland stood there, stoic and smiling against it. They could laugh at him, but he wasn’t dead yet. The guards stepped away, and the executioner got ready with the lever.

***

‘WAIT!’

The ring had worked remarkably well. With it, Holsley had been able to slip through the crowd as if his skin had been coated in butter. Reaching the front was easy, but getting there on time proved to be more difficult.

He had listened to Roland give his short speech, knowing that time was nearly up, and just before the lever was thrown back, he had managed to stall the proceedings with a well-timed, one-worded cry that drew out all the air from his lungs.

‘YOU!’ Kythos shot an accusing finger towards him. ‘What are you doing here, grubber!?’

‘J-just wait…’ More running. ‘Please. H-hang on.’

The crowd was getting restless behind him.

‘What do you want?’ Kythos settled them down with a gesture as he stepped to the platform’s edge. ‘Make it quick.’

‘To play a song on my lute.’ Holsley held up his instrument, taking in deep and considered breaths as he did so. ‘Please. Just one song, and then I’ll leave.’

‘Arrest him!’ Kythos barked, and the tubheads behind him immediately stepped into action. They moved towards the crowd to apprehend him. ‘No one wants to hear your stupid bloody song.’

‘I do!’ Roland shouted above the din. The crowd went quiet. Kythos eyed him. ‘Let him play his song. My speech was rubbish.’

‘No!’ Kythos barked, motioning to the executioner just as the tubheads reached Holsley. The young bard didn’t retreat, but every time they moved to grab him, he simply slipped out of their grasp. ‘Now, get on with—’

‘I’ll tell you something,’ Roland blurted out. ‘One piece of information that I won’t take to my grave. I’ll do it in exchange for one song.’

Neither the crowd nor Holsley quite knew about the foundations this bargain was being built upon, but they did notice how it made Kythos pause. They watched the bloated tiefling consider it for a moment as he worked his mind towards a decision. After a little piece of the day slipped by, he finally nodded.

With a grin reaching from ear to ear, Holsley slipped through the last of the audience, almost tripping over a kid’s homemade doll, and made his way towards the gallows.

***

Roland didn’t let his concentration slip on his surroundings. Holsley had learned magic, he reminded himself. None of these tubheads would suspect it. Not here in the north. Whatever the bard was about to do, it must be casting a spell. Why else would he insist on playing his lute before Roland was dropped?

Kythos moved behind him as Holsley prepared. The rogue heard him whisper to the tubheads nearby. Once Holsley was finished, he told them the young bard was to be arrested and then hanged before Roland’s body had a chance to grow cold. He didn’t know if Kythos had wanted this to be kept a secret, but he thought it more likely that the tiefling had wanted Roland to overhear his sinister plans for his friend.

Suddenly, the tiefling was at Roland’s ear.

‘You better tell me something good after the song’s finished,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, I’ll make your friend suffer in the cells first.’

‘You’ll get a piece of what you’re after,’ replied Roland. ‘Now shut up.’