The executioner pulled the lever, the floor gave way, and the convicted man plummeted, his fall broken only by the thick rope around his neck. His spine broke, his body spasmed, and only one man in the crowd felt remorse.
Quentin Massys watched his client's body sway in a breeze that no one else could feel.
"Dammit," he said under his breath. All the bridges he'd burned, all the sleepless nights, all the humiliation he'd suffered, was for nothing.
"Dammit," he said again for what must have been the twentieth time. He had been so close to saving Damon. Not restoring the man's freedom, the clergy's evidence had been irrefutable, but he could have saved the man's life. Or so he'd thought.
"Bah!" He turned around and shouldered his way through the crowd, using his cane to rake the shins of anyone not moving quick enough. "The show's over," he grumbled as he went. He caught some dirty looks from the serfs but none stayed in his way or threatened retaliation for their bruised shins.
"Barbarians," he said a little bit louder as soon as he'd escaped the crowd of onlookers. "We made it to the 14th century and you're still excited by executions and gallows." He cast a look over his shoulder and saw that his client's body was no longer spasming or swaying. It was only hanging now. Quentin knew the executioner would leave him up there for another hour before cutting the rope. It was important the peasants knew what awaited them, should they dare to aspire beyond their station.
A grin tugged at the edge of Quentin's lips as he imagined the crowd of onlookers garbed in long black feathers, squawking like crows in a murder. He shook his head and cleared the image from his mind. There was no reason to build resentment towards these people, he thought. They were, after all, the ones he most often chose to fight for. The ones who hired him.
Quentin limped along the edge of Castle Town's moat ready for the day to be over. Unfortunately, he knew it wasn't over. Because he had been audacious enough to represent Damon in front of the Royal Court, the affairs and belongings of the deceased were now Quentin's responsibility, starting with the corpse.
"Is that you, Massys?" asked a voice. Quentin flinched then looked around to identify the one who addressed him.
"It is," he answered pausing in the middle of the drawbridge. "To whom am I speaking?"
A royal guard stepped around the portcullis. He wore a well kept uniform and breastplate, was of average build, and carried himself like a soldier. The only feature that didn't scream professional, was the man's ear-to-ear grin.
"How'd you know it was me, James?" Quentin asked his friend.
James tapped the heel of his right boot against the iron and wood drawbridge.
"I can hear the thump of your cane while you walk," he said, smile ever plastered to his face.
Quentin snorted and resumed his path across the bridge. "Be thankful it was enough to wake you up. Constable Wage should be right behind me."
James gave his friend a wink. "Always looking out for the little guy."
"Hmm," was all Quentin offered in response.
He hobbled under the portcullis and onto the brick roads of Castle Town. The well made streets of the city were much easier for the cripple to navigate through than the dirt paths outside the city walls.
Quentin walked for about thirty minutes before he had to take a seat on a bench and massage his leg. He promised himself he wouldn't complain about the walk to and from the execution when he'd set out that morning. Nobody was going to make a liar of him today. He did, however, give the blue sky a rueful stare. A storm was coming. His knee, and what was left of his thigh, only ached this bad before a storm. Strangely enough there wasn't more than one white puffy nimbus to blame for his suffering.
No matter, he thought to himself. Once he took care of Damon's affairs he could take the next few days off.
After only one more break he made it to Castle Town's Keep.
Castle Town had a glorious history of being peaceful. Filled to the brim with beautiful, law abiding citizens. Quentin knew for certain that the official history of Castle Town could not be more wrong. Why else would an unblemished haven need such a large, imposing, keep or dungeon if there were no criminals? Quentin had often mused to himself. And Castle Town's Keep was indeed imposing.
Gargoyles were perched atop marble pillars along a sloped Gothic roof. Their fearsome expressions dared anyone to peek into the one window that offered view of the building's insides. Their eyes mocked the poor souls that were dragged in by the Constable and his men.
Yes, Quentin supposed to himself, the architect of this place did a fine job of demonizing the corrupt justice system. It was no wonder they built this place far from the main road. The man with the cane gave the twin gargoyles an undaunted glare, then pushed the heavy oaken door open with his free hand.
"Where's Spade at?" Quentin asked the guard.
The guard yawned lazily, adjusted himself, then decided he was ready to answer. "Well good afternoon to you too."
Quentin furrowed his brow. He was in no mood for games or pleasantries. He bore into the impetuous guard with his eyes and tapped his cane against the stone floor impatiently.
"Where is my assistant?" he asked slowly.
The guard gave Quentin a look over, then begrudgingly fixed his posture and stood upright.
"He's cleaning your friend's cell," the guard answered with mischievous smile.
Quentin ignored the accusation of Damon being his friend, as opposed to his client, and shouldered passed the guard coldly. He could swear he heard a snicker from behind him while he clicked and clacked down the stone and marble hall. The sound of his cane echoed along the walls ahead of him. His assistant's head peeked out from around the corner, no doubt alerted by his master's clicking.
"I was just about to come find you," the boy squeaked. Puberty was just beginning to sink its claws into Quentin's young assistant, and the boy's cracked voice and pimpled face showed it.
"I'm all done with Master Damon's cell."
"He's dead, Spade. It's just Damon now."
Spade looked down at the floor. "Oh," he said quietly. "Does that mean I have to go bury him?"
Quentin reached into his pockets. "Aye, you have to go bury him." He pulled his hand out with a blue rupee clutched between his fingers. "But I'd say some extra appreciation is in order."
Spade's big brown eyes got even bigger when he saw the rupee. Excitedly he reached outward for his reward, only to have Quentin snatch it back.
"Ah, ah, ah," Quentin said with wave of his cane. "This is not to be spent until AFTER you've taken care of Damon."
Spade bobbed his head up and down, swearing and promising he wouldn't even lift the piece from his purse until his chore was done. Quentin doubted his excitable assistant but handed the rupee over anyway. The moment his little paws touched the gem he shoved his hand into the inside pocket of his breeches and took off running down the hall. Quentin chuckled to himself and hobbled after him.
With that taken care of, the only thing left for Quentin to do was file the paperwork concerning Damon's few possessions. Luckily, when he'd seen the case going sour, he'd staged all the paperwork at his home. With a curt grunt towards the guard, Quentin left the Keep and headed for his humble residence.
The commute from the Keep to his house was the absolute worst part about Quentin's job. The man had chosen to live on one side of the main road and market square, and work on the opposite. He could already feel his right knee swelling as he counted the steps home.
Commotion on the main road pulled his attention away from his bum leg. An entourage of palace guards were chasing people away as they moved down the main road and through the market square. Curious to a fault, Quentin hobbled parallel to the road in an attempt to get a better view of the guards.
The guards, Quentin realized, were not just any palace guards. They were the King's illustrious bodyguards, Elites. Veteran warriors who would slay dozens of their liege's enemies before selflessly offering up their own lives. Quentin wondered why such prestigious men were causing a scene amongst the rabble. Surely the King or his Princess weren't out without their litter.
Quentin scanned the group, searching for the Princess's personal attendant, Impa. Instead of the Sheikah he found the cause for all the commotion. The Elites had a man, massive in stature, chained and cuffed, with a black bag hiding his face, in tow behind them.
"Clear the path!" bellowed the Elite at the head of the group.
"Where are they going?" Quentin asked one of the citizens that had been herded over towards him.
"To the gallows," the man said excitedly. "They're saying he tried to kill the Princess!"
Quentin turned back the to hooded man in disbelief. Who would even dare to harm the Princess? If the Elites weren't intimidating enough, the Princess's attendant could halt a raging river with an icy stare.
"Nobody's that stupid," Quentin said with a shake of his head.
The man shrugged. "I guess that fellow is."
Quentin thought for a moment. No, he decided, something strange was going on. Forgetting his leg for a moment Quentin maneuvered around the gapers and onlookers and pressed towards the Elites. One of the men doing crowd control stopped him with a stiff arm planted on his chest.
"Stand back!" the soldier ordered.
"What is that man's crime?" Quentin demanded.
"That's none of your business," the soldier sneered.
He tried to shove the cripple backwards but Quentin was having none of it. Just as the soldier pushed him he pivoted on his good leg. Suddenly meeting no resistance the soldier stumbled forward. Quentin stuck his cane out, tripping the man's legs and sending him forward on his face.
"What is this man's crime?" Quentin asked stepping passed the crowd and downed soldier so the Elites could see him.
The leader of the group, a dangerous man who Quentin knew as Lord Heydron, narrowed his eyes at the nosy cripple and stepped forward to correct him. A younger Elite from the side stopped him.
"Massys," the Elite said. Quentin recognized his friend Micah. "Do yourself a favor and stay out of this one," Micah advised.
Quentin held his free hand up innocently.
"I'm only here to help."
"How's that?" Lord Heydron asked.
Quentin leaned heavily on his cane and did his best to appear nonchalant.
"It would seem your men have gotten mixed up," he answered. "The dungeons are a part of the Keep. And the Keep is that way." He indicated the road he'd just come from with a tilt of his head.
"This traitor isn't going to the dungeons."
"No?" Quentin asked feigning surprise. "Did I miss his trial? Was he found guilty in accordance with King Hadrian's laws?" Quentin spoke loud so that all of the sheeple could hear him. If nothing else, he needed a witness for when Lord Heydron broke his jaw.
Lord Heydron took two steps so that he was standing directly in front of, and subsequently over, Quentin. His hazel eyes glared passed his broken nose, promising Quentin every sort of pain for interfering. Quentin didn't back down.
"No man may be executed for any crime without a trial." Quentin suspected he was pushing his limits. "Not even for regicide."
He knew the fist was coming, but he didn't see it. Unconsciousness cradled him to the ground like a caring mother. Returning to consciousness was far less pleasant.
"Don't try and sit up," warned a familiar voice.
"Micah?" Quentin asked. Pain, manifesting as blinding lights and stars, bounced through Quentin's racked brain. He hoped keeping his eyes shut would offer some sort of relief.
"You just had to stick your nose where it doesn't belong! It's like you enjoy pissing off as many powerful people as possible!" His friend was obviously irate.
Quentin groaned and tried to pry one of his eyelids open. The torchlight in the room triggered another wave of pain. He recognized he was in his own home.
"What happened after I was knocked out?"
Micah sighed. "The people went into a frenzy after Heydron knocked you out. They started screaming about King Hadrian's laws and King Harkinian and all that nonsense." He paused for a minute and shook his head. "Your new client is in the Keep."
Quentin hissed ruefully between clenched teeth. He truly hadn't meant to pick up another client. Especially not after how poorly Damon's case ended.
"Who is he?" Quentin asked.
"Ha!"
Quentin winced at the sudden noise. "Goddesses Micah!"
"You didn't recognize him?" Micah asked incredulously.
Quentin tried to shake his head.
Micah sighed again and dropped his head into his hands. "Figures." Slowly he looked up from his hands. "That was the General."
Quentin did sit up now, the pain was nothing compared to what he'd just heard.
"Surely you're kidding!"
With a mixed expression on his face, Micah shook his head. "I'm not. Your new client is General Ganondorf."
Author's Note: This is going to be a short story, only a few chapters long. Let's see how this goes.