Inspired by the Whumptober 2023 prompts: no.8 "It's all for nothing."; no.9 Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days; no.24 Neglect

Alarmed by the strange sound from the horn, the guards grab their swords and, with watchful eyes, scan the crowd for attackers.

"Damn!" Emhyr curses under his breath, lowering his signal horn. He has not only foolishly squandered his chance to free the count, his old ally, but also lost the boy. It was all for nothing.

Or was it? In contrast to the four convicts preceding him, the boy is not yet dead. Hanging from the rope next to the four lifeless bodies, he is gasping for air, his legs kicking wildly. The hangman must have tampered with the knot so the fall would not break the neck and cause instantaneous death like with the others before, but instead kill slowly by strangulating the victim. Or was the boy simply not heavy enough? Body weight is of the essence in a hanging. The why hardly matters, though. If they are quick, they might be able to save him yet. Emhyr darts a look at his companion. The arbalester has noticed it, too. He readjusts his aim and lets go of the bolt. Faster than the human eye can see, the projectile zooms through the air. At the same moment, several hooded figures on horseback gallop into the market square, almost riding down the spectators standing in their way. In a panic, they leap to the sides and bump into one another. Children start to scream at the top of their lungs, their wailing almost drowning out the commands the bailiff bellows at the soldiers in the black Nilfgaardian uniform. The guards encircle the prisoners, their swords trained at their throats and hearts. Whoever is attacking them, they will not free a single one of the condemned, no, over their dead bodies!

In the ensuing chaos, none of the bailiff's men notices the boy dropping to the ground, the rope cut clean in two by the bolt's broadhead.

Barely conscious, he lies in a heap beneath the scaffold, struggling for breath, the rope still tight around his throat. A big, hooded man rushes toward the gallows. Before the surprised guards can react, he grabs the boy, throws him across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and pushes his way through the gawping crowd. Then a horse is there. He flings his burden onto it in front of the rider and jumps into the saddle of the spare mount a fellow partisan has brought for him. Once again, Emhyr blows his horn. The rebells ride off at breakneck speed, their black cloaks billowing behind them.

Everything happens so fast that the soldiers do not even have the time to climb off the platform for a counter-attack. All they can do is send a few arrows after the mysterious enemy, but the bailiff quickly stops his bowmen's efforts. The risk of hitting and accidentally killing one of the spectators is too high. They are lucky that nobody has been trampled to death or seriously injured by the horses or in the mayhem of the assault. All they can do now is to be extremely watchful, prevent any of the other convicts from fleeing, try to calm down the masses and proceed with the executions as planned. The incident is unfortunate, however, it could have been worse. They could have rescued the traitorous count who, in league with several others, had tried to incite a rebellion against the Imperator and spent years in the Citadel for it. Recently, there have been rumours of a rising resistance, even of a rightful heir having returned to Nilfgaardian. It is probably nothing but idle gossip, however, it is not completely impossible. And the count is not the only high-profile prisoner among the doomed. It would not have come as much of a surprise had they tried to free the infamous leader of the drug ring they were finally able to catch and who is awaiting his long deserved death together with the nobleman and the other criminals. Why on earth those despicable villains would risk their lives to, of all people, save this one insignificant thieving little ragamuffin is an absolute enigma to the bailiff. They must have made a mistake. There is no other explanation. But how can you mistake that dirty little street urchin for any of the more prominent prisoners? It is not possible - unless you are thoroughly and completely blind. The bailiff shrugs his shoulders. Well, it is not his problem if they messed up whatever they had planned to do, on the contrary. If one of the more important gallows birds had escaped, he would be in major trouble. With just one little run-away boy, on the other hand, he does not expect any serious repercussions from the incident. Maybe a slight reprimand. At the very most. It will soon be forgotten. By everybody, including himself.

He motions the guards to take the next batch of convicts up the stairs while the hangman's assistants take down the dead bodies still dangling from the ropes. They will have to do with four executions at a time until they can get the fifth rope fixed.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The face of the wheezing, limp figure in the saddle in front of him has turned a worrying shade of blue from lack of oxygen. The rider tries his best to loosen the knot of the rope around the boy's neck, but it is not easy with his heavy gloves on and while in full flight on a galloping horse in the narrow, cobbled streets of the old town. Using a knife is impossible, he could cut the kid's throat by accident. But now that they got him out alive, he can hardly let him suffocate here on this horse or everything will have been for nothing. So he takes off his gloves and tries again. After a good amount of fiddling, the knot finally opens sufficiently for the boy to take a big gulp of the desperately needed air. He gasps and coughs and retches up blood and bile and starts trembling so badly, the rider has to wrap one arm tightly around his slight waist to keep him from falling off the horse. It takes a while until his breathing becomes less laboured and panicked.

Exhausted, the boy slumps against the stranger behind him. Although he has no idea who the man is and why he freed him and although he has not said a single word yet, somehow he feels safe. So safe, he closes his eyes and, completely drained from his ordeal, falls asleep in his saviour's arms.

Soon, the horsemen reach the open countryside. Dusk is falling. They will have to ride on for at least another hour until they reach their temporary headquarters, a cave in the mountains surrounded by pine forest. Not exactly comfortable or adequate for the heir to the throne, but it will be hard to find the rebels there. Better days will come as soon as the Usurper is vanquished. However long it will take. And somehow, Emhyr has the feeling that the dirty little guttersnipe sleeping cuddled up against his chest will play an important role in the fights to come. Not today, nor tomorrow, but kids grow fast, learn fast if taught well. They are easy to influence, too, mouldable. Very unlike those oldish dukes and counts. They might be influential, perhaps even loyal, but most of them predominantly do what best serves themselves, their own families and their interests, not his. They want him because they believe they can manipulate him, because they have a daughter they want him to wed so one of their grandsons will, one day, sit on the throne in the City of Golden Towers. However, he, Emhyr var Emreis, has very specific plans of his own for the future of Nilfgaard, of the continent, and they definitely do not involve him taking one of their dumb daughters as his wife. He will not be manipulated by anybody, no. He will take back what is rightfully his, and the kid will help him do it.

Eventually, some life returns to the boy. He sits up and looks around. Not that there is much to see in the twilight, besides pine trees, but it is a good sign. He seems alert and must be doing better. To Emhyr's satisfaction and relief, as a failed hanging can easily cause lasting brain damage due to the lack of air, he is able to stay upright in the saddle by himself, even with his hands still bound behind his back. He has obviously sat on a horse before. His posture is perfect, not at all what one would expect from a simple peasant boy. He is still shivering, but probably more from the chill of the evening than from shock and fear. No wonder, too, his clothes are so threadbare, they seem to be mostly glued together by dirt and grime and may have fit alright two, three years ago. Now the sleeves of his shirt are far too short, as are the legs of his pants. The typical signs of neglect you would find in a common orphan living in the streets of Nilfgaard or the smaller cities and towns of the empire. Only that they usually have no clue how to ride a horse. The fact that this boy knows is interesting. Clearly, not everything is what it seems here. Well, this is the case quite often these days. He only needs to look at himself. Who would, just for a single second, believe that he is going to be the Emperor of Nilfgaard in a few months, or years? His clothing resembles more what you would expect a brigand to wear, and the state of his hair and beard are not much better. Nothing kingly about him at the moment, except for his name, his blood and is determination. Nonetheless, they all will learn soon that looks can be deceptive, dangerously deceptive.

Following their scout, the men ride on in silence. The crescent moon is high up in the sky when they finally reach their destination. Emhyr helps the boy dismount, which is not easy without the use of his hands. He could have cut his fetters, however, it will be safer to do so with better light. And he might want to ask the boy a few questions first.

"Come with me," Emhyr orders curtly when the boy stands safely on his feet and strides toward the mouth of the cave, not looking back. He is sure the boy will do as told. If not, his men will teach him how to obey, and it will not be a particularly pleasant lesson ...