The Executioner's Axe

The Executioner’s Axe

 

Cord thought only of death. The death of Aphila, who had betrayed him; the death of Jorna, who had stolen Aphila from him; the death of everyone in the village who had looked the other way when it happened; but most of all, his own death because he was too cowardly to do anything about it but to throw himself over the cliff and thus, end all thoughts of life or death.

It was because he was contemplating this last, final act that he was high enough up the mountainside to witness the fireball light up the sky in a searing flash, to discover where it landed, and to find the glowing sky stone nestled in the broken shale.

A message to him, to only him and his thoughts of death.

That it was a message, he had no doubt. He’d been praying for justice and retribution every waking hour, his dreams had been of bloody revenge, and as he stood at the edge of the cliff, ready to jump and end it all, the Gods had saved him, for why else would such a thing have happened at that moment, where only he could discover the precious metal?

Only the headsman had a blade of sky stone, displayed pretentiously on his belt, shining in the firelight—the symbol of his office, a token of his power. But that knife was but six inches long—not enough to impress any bride except by its strength and sharpness.

Cord worked quickly, grabbing two branches off the ground and pinching the still glowing rock between and lifting it. The branches flared and snapped under the weight, but not before Cord had maneuvered it to the middle of a flat stone. While the metal was still soft, he pounded upon it with whatever rocks he could find until the metal prevailed and the rocks splintered.

Exhausted, Cord curled up by the anvil stone and closed his eyes, still feeling the heat of the sky stone.  

He slept for the first time in days, and for once, his dreams were peaceful, his reprisal already fulfilled, Aphila once again at his side, he in the headman’s place, holding the sky stone set on a polished shaft, still glowing from the light of the Gods.

When he woke in the morning, he was refreshed. He quickly killed a hare with a single throw of a rock, something he’d never accomplished before. The sky stone was still hot enough to ignite the twigs he laid upon it, and soon he had finished his meal in the warmth of a fire.

The sky stone gleamed in the spots where he had struck it the night before. It was not much more than a slightly flattened shape, but Cord could see within it the shape he wanted. An axe head, long and curved, its edge so sharp it glittered.

With renewed energy, he gathered firewood and set about building a huge bonfire over the sky stone. For all of daylight, each time the wood diminished into embers, he added to the fire, and as night fell, he threw all the branches he had left and stood shielding his face from the heat with his hands.

 Below in the valley, the villagers exclaimed, for they had all witnessed the fireball, and it seemed to them that a God must have descended to earth, and was playing with flames for purposes that only a God could know.

Cord again slept for a time, but when he woke, he was ready to finish his task. He had set aside rocks he’d selected for their denseness and shape. The coals of the bonfire still glowed in the morning, and as he swept them aside, the sky stone was revealed, shimmering red in the morning light.

He hammered the metal, each rock lasting only long enough to slightly outline the metal. As the day progressed, he began to despair, for the sky stone was too hard, and neither the rocks nor the strength of his arm were enough to shape it.

Before dark, he gave up and once again gathered firewood, and built another bonfire, though this one lacked the exuberance and brilliance of the night before. He slept, and in his dreams Aphila and Jorna were laughing at him, pointing at the misshapen metal in his hand.

Yet, in the morning, Cord saw with fresh eyes that he’d succeeded in shaping the sky stone more than he’d thought. It was clearly in the shape of an axe head. It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional enough to serve its purpose. He thought of the village blacksmith, who had a forge and billows, even if his bronze tools would soon break under the strain.

But Cord sensed that he would be given but one chance, that word would quickly reach Jorna of his new weapon. Jorna was a giant of a man—he would not be killed unless Cord had the element of surprise, no matter how formidable the sky axe.

He set about once again pounding on the axe, this time working on the edge, and as night fell, he could do no more. He had not the strength to build another fire, and so he slept, shivering, the cold sky stone near his head.

The next day’s task was easier, for he had spent most of his life sharping the blades of other, stronger men. He’d failed on his quest to kill a single animal, and so he had been relegated to village chores while other men went hunting. Only Jorda had been friendly to him and because of this, Cord had made the mistake of bragging about his young wife, and then of taking his new friend home to share a meal.

That very night, he’d heard Aphila cry out, and he knew that sound though he had heard it only a few times before—it was of her pleasure and satisfaction. He’d burst into the common room, to find them already finished, staring back at him with satiated smiles.

He'd gone to the headsman for justice, but the headsman had merely shrugged, for what business was it of his which man pleasured a woman. Others had looked away, and some he had caught laughing behind their hands. The shame had become too much, and he set off on his journey into the mountains, not even aware of his intention until he stood on the cliffside and realized that he’d thought of nothing but death for days.

The blade was ready by nightfall, and that night he slept soundly again, though he could remember no dreams. He hunted that morning, for he hadn’t eaten in several days, and once again, to his surprise, he brought down a hare with a single throw.

He decided that though the blade was sharp, it was ugly, so he set about polishing the blade, and finding a strong branch for a shaft and shaping the skin of the hare into cords.  When he was done, he could see how the axe could be finished, the final rough spots polished and gleaming. For the first time, he wondered if that wasn’t enough, that possession of such a blade would be revenge enough.

But no, his woman had been taken from him, and it would mean nothing to the headsman or for the other villagers for Jorna to take the sky stone too.

The next morning he rose before dawn and made his way down the mountain. He had never felt so confident, so manly. This must be how hunters felt returning to the village with stags slung over their shoulders. The sky axe was heavy, and Cord laid the haft over his shoulder, shifting it to his other shoulder when it began to hurt. Once or twice, he swung the blade and realized that the deed would need to be done swiftly, before his arms tired.

He marched down the middle of the street. At first, no one paid any attention to him. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, the light caught the axe and the metal shone so brightly that no one could look at it for long.

Cord had no doubt where he would find Jorna—in his bed. If Jorna was not hunting, he’d be sleeping late, for there was no one to give him orders, even the headsman.

Cord opened the door to his bedroom, to be confronted by Aphila, still naked and sleepy, crouched over the chamber pot in the corner. She rose, mouth open, and for a moment, Cord quailed, for she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

He swung the axe and her head came off cleanly, striking the wall and falling into the pot.

Cord heard a grunt and without thinking, turned, swinging the axe with all his might. His blow was nearly premature, but the edge of the sky axe sliced across Jorna’s massive chest. Something red and glistening fell to the floor. Both men stared at the object, which beat three more times before ceasing. Jorna toppled forward, with his last act, knocking the axe from Cord’s hands, then landing atop him.

Cord’s breath was knocked from his chest. By the time he could inhale, men had entered the room, standing over Cord and the bodies of the betrayers. Cord smiled, reaching out for the blade, but one of Jorna’s hunter friends, stepped on his hand, and snatched the blade away.

 

Once again, morning had broken. Cord had dreamed of Gods and of lighting from the sky. His mind was still dazzled by the light as he was dragged from his prison.

The entire village was there—the first time they’d ever paid him such attention.

The headsman stood over the blacksmith’s anvil, the blade of office tucked into his belt. In his hands he held the new talisman. It gleamed in the morning light as if it had just landed among the mortals.

Cord was made to kneel. His thoughts were of death, of Aphila and Jorna, and of his standing on the edge of the cliff, the Gods laughing.

The headsman swung the axe over his head and down on Cord’s neck. The blade above him seemed to roll away, and then there was darkness.

The headsman wiped the blood off the axe and handed it to the blacksmith.

“It needs to be sharper,” he said.