Noose

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TODO: note to self: write second draft later to make this not suck!

The Hangings of The Orrient are widely regarded the most gruesome and insensitive of events in all of the empire’s history from its very inception. The fact that it ruined that year’s Christmas was just a bonus.

The year was 3016 AGW: the Durgor War had reached its bloody climax. The Kingdom of Durgor had finally received the backing of foreign warlords and a deadly stalemate had been reached on the eastern mainland. Durgorian privateers patrolled the Sundering Seas. The Orrient’s Imperial Army was draining like quicksand. And the conscription of youths as young as 10 years of age was under full swing.

In the high reaches of Imperial Parliament, the Emperor Panitet decreed that from the 1st of March all those that refused the summons would be executed with no discretion. Tensions obviously arose; you could not hang a child. So an amendment was made that youths younger than 14 years would condemn their families instead to the nooses of The Hanging Tree.

The first hanging was approved and slated for March 7th 3016, at the infamous Hanging Tree in the port of Bolya’s Beacon. The White Regiment of the Imperial Army was to preside over the execution, with its General George Stacy personally overseeing the event. An allotment of four individuals were chosen for execution: the parents of Firsk Willingham, a large burly boy from the capital; and the parents of Atro, a much scrawnier kid of the Wheat Fields. Both children had escaped their homes on the same day - and so their parents would pay the price.

The hangings were intended to be quick and silent. The newspapers were ordered not to cover the event, and so only a small crowd gathered that early morning. The Execution Rooster was set up as tradition dictated, the parents were lined up on the gallows by the Tree and the crimes of the condemned were read out. Then when the Rooster would crow at the rising sun, the lever would be pulled and the condemned would drop.

It shall be noted that Firsk and Atro were there that day, having smuggled themselves into Bolya’s Beacon. They sought to stop the hanging by any means necessary, and when the crimes were being read out they pounced upon the gallows. This frightened the Execution Rooster, who crowed in a panic, and the half-awake executioner pulled the lever.

It was the first hanging that utilised the ‘Big Drop’ method, the gallows raised higher and the drop made longer. Instant death was assured.

The two children watched their parents die in front of them. Atro killed the executioner with his dagger in his flying rage. Firsk snatched a lantern and threw it against The Hanging Tree itself. General Stacy called for his soldiers to kill them both, but in the ensuing panic they vanished into the unruly crowd. The wooden boards of the gallows went aflame, as did the four loose bodies hanging from their taut nooses, and before long the whole of The Hanging Tree was burning in the morn.

The fire of The Hanging Tree was but a herald of the greater flame: the wildfire of rumour and legend. Before long, the people whispered of growing activity of a rebel conspiracy led by the two that had burned down the Tree. Open only to similarly exiled youths on the run, the group slunk around the countryside of The Orrient and hid out where they could. And if you found them and signed yourself into the signatory, you could join.

The rumours spread and grew.

The Hangings continued. With The Hanging Tree all but an ashen wreck, they were held instead across all the island of The Orrient: at the gallows of Dusa in the Weedy Woods; in the jailcells of Estudor on the western coast; even from the little hanging poles of Twiddler’s Buck, where the nooses were hung so low that the condemned would drag their feet against the ground as they spasmed, sometimes for minutes on end.

And with every life snuffed out, with every orphaned child, the rebel conspiracy grew. It grew to the point where it must step out into the light and face the empire head on. Firsk was their leader, and he flaunted it well. His first companion, the lesser known Atro, was his right-hand man. In the span of 3 months the band’s size grew tenfold, and they ravaged across the island. Hangings were interrupted and victims saved; passing army troops were ambushed and slaughtered; they robbed army barracks and ships of the line. The conscriptions were faltering. People silently cheered for their continued success.

But others saw its growing strength with worry. Every hanging fueled their rage. More attacks. More burnings. More pillaging. They started targeting even normal commonfolk in their rampage. Firsk pushed the idea of a noble band of courageous youths, fighting for their rights and their freedoms; he pushed people like Atro into the limelight - someone who would kill General Stacy, a person everyone despised, and have him be hanged. And then Firsk would turn round and plan yet another heist on a simple merchant’s townhouse.

The band went by many names: the Hanging Tree Burners, the Orriental Scum, the Lost Boys. But no name would be official unless the Emperor himself issue out the esteemed Wanted posters.

The streets of the forest town of Thindburg were filled with people. Bystanders covered the cobblestone streets. It was typical for Christmas Eve to cause a hubbub in the burgeoning town by the river, but this time they were all drawn to something else entirely.

The Hangings were a spectacle now. Regardless of what the official news said, talk of upcoming hangings went far and wide and attracted the largest of crowds. Half the people here were not even Thindburg locals. The Execution Rooster was set up - he was a tired, miserable cockeral now, having been ferried from town to town on countless Hangings. The condemned were lined up against a makeshift wooden stage and the crimes of the victims were read out, as usual. Today was the day that 12 people were to be hanged; the largest Hanging ever held in The Orrient. No one knew it yet, but it would also be the last.

The town square, the Thind, was packed, the circle of buildings housing a mosh pit of people like a can of sardines. It was a cold wintry morning, yet the sheer number of bodies melted the ground clear of last night’s snow so that it was a slick, slippery mess.

The soldiers of the White Regiment stood vigil across the Thind; the incident of The Hanging Tree had taught them a very valuable lesson. General Stacy stood upon the stage itself, giving orders to his soldiers to keep the bystanders at bay and get this event over and done with. The crowds were an animal, he thought, a raving, clamourous beast. Some were here to watch the show, and others were here to scorn it and protest it. The sooner they had their fill, the better. And preferably behind the circle of guards around the centre of the Thind.

People pushed and shoved for a closer look at the condemned. Some laughed; some cried; some shouted angry words. It was an animal indeed: the crowd surged this way and that, a rowdy din. Some chanted to stop the Hangings; others sought to push past the guards. And others stayed deadly silent; like Firsk Willingham, and Atro of the Wheat Fields, and all the rest of the exiled outlaws. They were all here, lying in wait, to stop the hanging by any means possible.

It was inevitable. A rock thrown, a soldier pushed over, and the lions were let loose. At once a group of protesters were beginning to surge past the wall of stationed guards.

And so Firsk gave the word to his fellow outlaws.

Axes were raised and arrows flew. The riot and destruction of Thindburg had begun. The outlaws stormed the centre of the Thind, clambering onto the stage. General Stacy barked his order, and the soldiers were unleashed upon the townspeople.

The Execution Rooster was slaughtered before it could sound. The executioner jumped off the stage and into the fray. Someone pulled the lever regardless, but the weight of rioters on the makeshift stage brought the whole structure down with a crash. And of course, the fire began. Many of the condemned were saved from the flames, but the rest were cooked within.

The crowds dispersed, but the riots did not. Angry onlookers, having simmered their rage inside for months on end, now opened that rage upon the soldiers and the town. Rocks were thrown, lanterns brought down, windows smashed. Shophouse owners cowered and prayed as protesters with wanton rage. Many had sons and daughters that had been sent across the Sundering Seas, never to return. Others were orphaned sons and daughters themselves, now emboldened by the outlaws. They took up hoes and axes and rallied against the soldiers of the White Regiment.

Fire and slaughter as the sun rose. The fighting came on in bursts as the groups of insurgents charged the soldiers stuck in the Thind, or those that were now coming in from out of town to quell the battle. The fire spread from the Thind to the surrounding houses of Thindburg until the whole town became a smokehouse, the sardines inside ready to pop under the heat.

Fire and slaughter as the sun sank. Some were fleeing now, back into the countryside from whence they came, hoping that the work they had done in Thindburg would not be traced back to them. Others fought on, for they fought not for pleasure. A few of the locals tried to hide indoors, but soon the fire would reach even them. Even they would have to flee.

It was the night of Christmas Eve, and the town was aglow with insidious light. Fires started and stopped whenever they wished. People hid in alleyways or made their final chance to run. And General Stacy of the White Regiment, one of the last soldiers standing, bore arms against Firsk of the outlaws on the dark, empty streets.

With a flick of his sabre Firsk sent a devastating blow, and General Stacy slipped upon the ground slick with melted snow and dried blood. As he lay on his back, he spat a curse at the outlaw.

“Childish scum,” he seethed, “You wanted to stop a measly 12 deaths, and look around at what you have wrought!”

But Stacy frowned at the way Firsk smiled. That hulking figure, who must surely be no older than 14, laughed like Stacy would at the face of the old general.

“I want to stop nothing,” he sneered. “I will not stop until the Emperor himself mewls at my feet. Then I shall have him hanged, as I’d like to do you…” But instead of advancing, he sheathed his sword and backed away. “But as it happens, my right-hand man wants to do you in instead. He’s been waiting for this day for a very long time.”

General Stacy frowned further as Firsk turned and ambled away into the night. No one else was left - no one alive. Now he must call for his men and run back into the forest. Their fun was over, and they had come away with the riches of Thindburg.

“What did you say?” the General called. “Who’s coming? Who’s been waiting?”

“Farewell, General,” Firsk called back, stalking back through the ruined Thindburg. “Have a Merry Christmas.”

A Wanted poster would be released the following day. The outlaws were named the Christmas Killers.

Not a single Hanging was announced ever again in all the empire’s history.

This is the first draft of a story I wrote today. As such, I think it sucks! I have no idea what the meaning of this story really is, and the pacing seems completely out of whack. If anyone actually read to this point, please come to me so I can give you a big round cookie.