Appo swallowed as the club pushed into the apple of his neck. He didn’t need to be reminded to move. After the guards departed, Juddken grabbed the back of Appo’s cloak and led him to the pillories. Appo had been pleading with no avail, and it seemed that Juddken was done with his protests. Without the ability to speak, Appo was only left to ponder what Juddken had planned for him. With the shaman dead, the plaza was now completely empty. There were no guards, prisoners, or hecklers. Just a healer and his executioner.
Juddken forced Appo up the platform steps to the pillory on their far right. The pillory was made of two wooden hatches connected by an iron hinge. In each hatch, two smaller semi-circles flanked a middle, large semi-circle: where the prisoner’s hands and head would be placed, respectively. As Appo approached the device, he considered running away. He even considered the possibility that Juddken wanted to simply separate him from the guards. Perhaps he would be kind enough to spare his life.
These thoughts were dashed the moment two reached the pillory. After untying Appo’s hands, Juddken swung his club into Appo’s belly. Appo gasped, collapsing to his knees and slamming his neck against the lower pillory circle. The pain was deep, and after a lull, it came in a wave that spread over his whole body. He was suddenly reminded of a time in his youth when he was kicked in the stomach by a camel. He had broken a rib, and it took two months before Appo could breathe normally again. At this moment, his rib held strong, but it wouldn’t be able to take any more hits like that.
As Appo regained his breath, Juddken lowered the upper hatch over Appo. A small iron latch slapped into a lower bolt, locking the two hatches in place. Appo briefly struggled before accepting the futility of it. He was officially Juddken’s prisoner, whatever that meant for him.
“‘Your hands are cursed. We must cut them off,’” echoed in Appo’s mind. He eyed Juddken’s scimitar, still sheathed in his belt. “That’s what is meant for me.”
“Please, Juddken.” Appo swallowed, ignoring the pain in his belly and the dryness of his throat. “I don't know what your father has told you, but you’ve seen what I’ve seen. You know what will come if this plague spreads.”
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Juddken said nothing. He paced back and forth, holding his club and staring at Appo. He still hadn’t reached for the scimitar.
“I- I know I entered the temple. I know I talked with the sha- the witch. But I- I did nothing to undermine you. I did nothing that would get in the way of your father - you and your father.” Appo couldn’t help but stutter over his words. He flexed his wrists repeatedly, trying not to imagine a blade slicing through them. “I can leave- I- I- I can go and leave you in peace. I- I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t die. Shaddon Law doesn't permit me to kill you.”
To Appo there was no difference. His livelihood came from his hands. He couldn’t imagine living without them. He only knew of slaves and ascetics who lived without their hands, and most of them didn’t live very long.
“Please!” Appo was raising his voice now, tears began to stream down his face. “Please don’t take my hands, I beg you! Ta-ta-take my feet! Take my ears! Take anything else!”
Juddken stopped his pacing and leaned in, gazing underneath Appo’s pathetic sobbing face. His eyes fell upon the crisscrossed lines of Lowya, dangling from Appo’s neck. Juddken reached forward with his free hand and deftly pulled the necklace off of Appo’s neck, caressing the lines as he did so.
“Father tells me you worship the Goddess of plague. Will you pray to her now?”
Appo sniffed. “Please.” It was all he could mutter. He wished his pleas were for Lowya, but at that moment it could have been for anyone. Ati. Okkan. Atta. Vijar. Pike. Juddken.
Juddken held the necklace at his eye line for a moment, before wrapping it around his hand. He turned his blank stare back to the pillory. “Okay, healer. I won’t cut off your hands. On one condition.”
Appo would have leaped in the air if his head and hands weren’t trapped. “THANK YOU! Bless you, Juddken, bless you. What do you wan-”
Appo heard a thud hit the floor below the two. For a moment, Appo thought that Juddken had dropped his club. As he looked down, he saw something bounce away from his feet. Appo gazed back up to see Juddken holding his scimitar down near the platform, its sharpened edge reddened. Appo’s left hand, previously sticking out through the pillory, was now a bloodied stump. Red streaks of crimson squirted outward. He saw his severed hand, curled into a fist, still rolling across the platform.
Appo didn’t feel anything at first. Yet he still wailed louder than he had ever wailed before. Juddken looked on, smiling.