Page 50 of A Fearless Rebel

“Bring him then?”

“Not yet,” the first man replied, and they went to the doorway.

“He’s alive and squirming,” the guard informed someone outside and then settled into a conversation.

Keithen’s face burned, but he barely felt it. His leg hurt worse than any of the other injuries.

It was much later that he heard voices outside. People were gathering to witness his execution. That people bothered to come was probably because they’d been promised food or something. A battle had just recently occurred. Surely, people were not interested in seeing more death.

Keithen continued listening intently for any familiar voice, but all the voices melded together.

Footsteps neared and he prepared to be jostled. Taking one last moment to pray for his soul, Keithen was more than ready to face what was to come.

“Time to be seen,” one of the men said and he was pulled up to stand. Keithen groaned in pain as both his shoulder and leg hurt so horribly, he could not stop a second scream. The guards hesitated. Perhaps it wouldn’t look good for the prisoner to scream louder at being moved than at the prospect of hanging.

Finally, he was half-carried, half-dragged out of the dungeon, up some steps and outside. By the time he could see the sky, he was crazed with pain, barely able to keep from blacking out.

“Do not pass out,” one of the guards shouted. “We need ye aware of what is about to happen.”

“I am very aware,” Keithen muttered. “Will ye go on and get it over with?”

Another guard neared. “Should we tie his hands behind his back?

“He only has use of one arm,” came the reply. “He can’t do much with one hand to save himself. It may be more entertaining actually.”

They didn’t tie his hands. Instead, they half-dragged him to where a rope had been thrown over a wooden arch.

Although some people had gathered, most seemed uninterested in what was happening. They’d been ordered to be there, but Alastair could not force them to show interest. For some reason, it made Keithen feel better. Guards were lined up in a semi-circle, in case someone came and tried a last-minute rescue. He could not turn to see, but suspected archers were in place atop the gate for the same reason.

There would be no rescue. Any attempts would be impossible. He wavered when one of the guards released him and fell sideways onto the ground.

Alastair stood next to the wooden arch and looked over. “Pick him up and hold him so he does not fall,” he shouted. “Do something right for a change.”

Once again, he was yanked to his feet. This time, the pain was so intolerable, he became sick and vomited. Both guards released him as the spillage hit their boots and then scrambled to pick him up again.

This time, people began to laugh, and Alastair sent two other guards to take the place of the first two. Darkness edged near and Keithen could feel the pull of it. He’d not fight it. It would be better to be unconscious than to feel the squeezing of his neck.

Cold water splashed on his face and he came to. He was under the arch now and placed atop a wooden box on a newly built platform. People had quieted and, now, most looked bored. Women tried to quiet children who’d began to complain of being hungry, while men rolled their eyes in their direction.

Finally, Alastair, who now also stood on the wooden platform, held up his hands.

“Punishment for killing a Mackenzie is death by hanging. Today, Keithen Fraser pays for killing our loyal guardsmen, by preying on them like animals.”

He paused for dramatic affect. Someone coughed.

“Ye have one last chance to tell me who killed my father.” Alastair neared and stared at him. “Tell me.”

Keithen met the man’s gaze. “Whoever killed yer father will come for ye next.”

The man sneered and lifted his hand as if to hit him. But then a child began screaming and he whirled around.

“Let us get this done with. I grow bored.”

The noose was slipped over his head. Keithen didn’t struggle as he hoped it would be quick and over. Instead, he focused on the horizon.

There was a strange haze in the distance, like mists that came down from the mountains on some mornings.

“One moment!” A vicar rushed up the steps. “I must speak to the prisoner and see about his soul.”