Chapter 14
With the pressure of cold metal on their backs and their hands bound in rope, they were marched past the city gates and along a narrow cobblestone street.
The bishop led the solemn procession. As they walked by the city's residents a crowd of people formed, following them. To Yokig it seemed like everyone in the city wanted to see what was going on. He imagined that they didn't have anything better to do than to gawk at the prisoners and follow the travelers to their deaths. The bishop fished a small bell out of his robes and began ringing it loudly. Yokig closed his eyes and hoped for a miracle. They had been in that situation before and they had always gotten out alive. He anxiously pondered that if he actually were the boy king, then something, anything really, would come to his aid and rescue him and his companions.
He swallowed hard, sweat poured down his face. Though his bindings Yokig noticed his hands trembling uncontrollably. Suddenly his knees gave out and he fell onto the stone ground, causing the entire proccessional to grind to a halt.
Yokig, His face pressed against the street, noticed a boy, a bit younger than him, staring at him from amongst the sea of people. The boy vanished as quickly as he appeared. The ringing of the bell stopped.
The bishop calmly came to stand over Yokig roughly grabbing the boys hair and yanking him to his knees. Pain shot through Yokigs body, causing him to let out a blood-curdling scream.
"Stand up!" The bishop commanded, clutching Yokigs head and ringing the bell with his other hand.
"Heathen!" The bishop shouted.
He rang the bell a second time. A kingsman came and roughly pulled on the boy's tunic, forcing him to his feet.
"Heathen!"
The crowd had gotten the bishop's message and, as he rang his bell, they began to chant along with him.
"Heathen!"
The group began to move again, their deaths looming over them like faceless shadows, haunting their entire beings. They passed shops and multi-storied wooden houses, the occupants sticking their necks out of windows and doors to get a good look of what all the commotion was about.
Yokig cast his gaze upon the sky praying for a sign, wishing that something would come to give him hope to cling to. But nothing came.
Without Blackpaw, the spirit of the entire travel party had been crushed.
Redbeards head hung low, his feet dragging behind him on the cobblestone pathway, powerless to protect the people he loved. Dresmaels precious spellbook had been torn in half and tossed away in front of her eyes by the terrible man ringing the bell and leading them to die.
Their belongings- after being thoroughly searched- had been thrown into the depths of the forest. Blackpaws body had been left in the clearing to be picked apart to the bone by crows and wild animals looking for an easy meal.
The closer they got to the city center, the more Yokigs heart sank. It felt like his end was fast approaching. He could feel the darkness the elf seer spoke about in her vision lurking just ahead of him. It was waiting for him, like a mother eagerly waiting for her child. It was calling his name. His chest felt empty without the cool and calm energy of the relic that once adorned it. How would they find the old one now? He wondered. Does it really even matter now if we find them or not?
Up ahead a cathedral rose into view. It's intimidating walls and high towers casting a long shadow over the plain wood and stone dwellings underneath. A crowd had gathered around the altar that stood in front of the building before the processional arrived. Onlookers began spitting on the travelers as they pushed their way through the crowd. Yokig felt a sharp pain as a rock brutally hit his face causing a stream of warm blood to trickle down his pale skin. His clothing and hair getting soaked with the mob's saliva.
In the squares center, standing next to the jade altar stained in blood, was a man clothed in black - the horrid golden dot stitched onto his chest- His face covered in an ominous black mask. The man held tightly to an executioner's axe, its long handle reaching the ground.
The prisoners were made to stand in a neat line behind him so that the crowd could see their presumably guilty faces. The chanting stopped after the high bishop rang the bell one final time.
"My children, children of the One God!" The high bishop addressed his people. "Today I bring you enemies of the faith; vial, subhuman creatures we found hiding like wolves outside our lovely city gates."
The bishop paused for effect and stretched his hands into the sky.
"Today I bring you a traitor. A witch..."
The crowd began to loudly boo and throw rocks until the bishop motioned for them to settle down.
"...And the worst enemy to the One God, a boy with dreams. Heretics and blasphemers, all three of them!" The bishop smiled at his clever wordplay. " And what do we do to these enemies of the One God?!" The crowd hissed and chanted as loudly as they could. "Death! Death to the heathens!"
"Ladies and gentlemen, flock of Endeloin, children of the One God!" The bishop addressed the crowd as the executioner kicked Yokigs knees, forcing him to the ground, pressing his face against the altar. The bishop held out his hands again for silence. "Tonight will be one for celebration because tonight the boy with dreams will die!"
The crowd roared with bloodthirsty glee at the bishop's words.
Yokigs breathing became heavy, in these final moments he wondered if this was really it for him. His mind raced , memories of his childhood and the bakery began to resurface like lost old friends, running to greet him to offer some sort of peace in his final moments. He saw himself growing up from a baby, fresh out the womb, past his parents tragic death. He looked on as his remaining family decided to bring him to his grandfathers to live and witnessed the journey they took to get there, to that little town on the outskirts of Grenlov. The memories passed by so quickly. He saw them travel through open fields and along worn dirt paths, over gentle hills and valleys. He saw his grandfather, in great detail, crying hysterically at the news of his precious daughter's death. He saw himself grow like a plant grows from a seed, pushing its way out of the ground to become what it was truly meant to be. He saw his grandfather's frequent trips into the city and remembered how wonderful he felt when they traveled there, and how sweet the apples they bought had tasted. He saw his grandfather bring home a tiny playful black kitten. He saw Blackpaw, he missed Blackpaw. He saw himself playing with the kitten with tiny pieces of string. Blackpaw grew up beside him. His memories feel on his dying grandfather. Yokig, in that moment, longed to see his grandfather again; to talk to him; to tell him everything that had happened to him. Deep inside, he knew his grandfather would have been proud. He saw every single thing that happened to him since his caretakers passing: the meeting of Redbeard, the burning of the bakery, Redbeards hospitality, the forest with Dresmael, the secret passageways into Negathor, the wet and cold ground of the damp cell and being rescued by the young kingsman. He saw the elves and the dwarves. He saw himself save Dresmael; Oh how he wished to kiss her, to hold her hand, to tell her that it's going to be ok. He wanted to tell her how much he liked her; what she meant to him. Finally, Yokig saw the crowd that had gathered to watch him die.
The executioner raised his axe over the boy's thin neck. Redbeard roared, finally finding the strength to snap through his bindings, freeing himself from his bondage and punching the Guard next to him to the ground. The spear that once held the giant in place, clattered onto the stone below. Other kingsmen emerged from the sea of people, jumping on the giants back, attempting to subdue his attacks and to bring him back under their control. Redbeard brushed them off like flies and grabbed the executioner by his arm, tackling him to the ground with his immense body weight. All the kingsmen the giant had managed to knock down, rushed to aid their comrade. They piled onto Redbeard, finally bringing the giant back into submission.
Yokig tried to sit up but his body was completely paralized and refused to move any farther, forcing him to helplessly witness the spectacle unfolding in front of his eyes.
Unbeknownst to Yokig, the bishop had taken the spear that previously lay on the ground and held it high above the boy as far as he could, aiming the pointy end at Yokigs heart.
"Long live the Boy King!" He shouted, plunging the spear into Yokigs flesh.
Yokigs body fell limp onto the altar as the priest continued to stab him, repeating his ghastly mantra. Each time his body was pierced, pain shot through him. Yokig couldn't breathe, his lungs and heart had been pierced and he saw his own blood seeped from his body, pooling up around his face. Each drop of blood that left his body made him feel lighter and more lightheaded. Just before his consciousness faded he saw the same boy from before emerging from the crowd, pointing into the sky and shouting something Yokig couldn't hear from his damaged ears. The crowd shifted their gaze into the heavens, the sky slowly turning black. And then the last rays of Yokigs soul pulled away from his body, pulling him into the dark depths of nothing.