The Execution by Sharon Cramer

to save for re-melting later.
    Replacing them was a task Ravan
usually tried to do earlier in the day, after the travelers of the
previous night had gone, but before the evening’s crowd poured in.
Somehow, he’d let time get away from him today.
    He never heard the breaking glass from
downstairs. Instead, he was lost in his thoughts, pondering that
particular afternoon when he’d given her the gloves. It was all too
much to assimilate for one so young, and as a child will do, he
imagined his own flawed reasons why she might have been displeased
with his gift. She had been happy with them—he'd seen it! She
seemed to like the gift, and then...?
    The thick wood carpentry of the Inn
made for very quiet dwelling and as a result, Ravan was caught
totally by surprise when the door crashed open behind
him.
    Spinning about, he dropped the
candlestick he held in his hand. It fell with a smack to the wooden
floor, cracked and imperfect now. A big man filled the doorway,
flanked by two friends almost equal in size. The man seemed
genuinely surprised to see Ravan in his room and halted for a
moment, swaying in the door.
    Mumbling a quiet apology for his
intrusion, Ravan scooped up the broken candle and ducked towards
the door, head down as though to leave. He could smell the heavy
liquor on their breaths as he stepped closer and paused, unsure
what to do next as they stood fast in the doorway.
    He recognized Pierre Steele, a trader
who was a frequent guest at the tavern.
    Robust in size, Pierre's had big, red
cheeks and a fat, pockmarked nose which spoke of frequent drinking.
His small pig eyes were closely set, sickly yellow and permanently
bloodshot. His personality was loud, and his enormous girth seemed
to fill a room.
    Not surprisingly, Pierre was often
responsible for brawls at the Inn, and he was frequently accused of
petty crimes. Slippery as an eel, however, he always seemed just
out of reach of proper retribution. He also possessed coin, and not
an ounce of ambition, so the Inn was where he could frequently be
found. The Innkeeper was generally happy to negotiate Pierre’s
drunkenness, as long as the man had money.
    Pierre also had a very nasty history
of perverted sexual exploits, which he kept only poorly hidden.
Ravan had even overheard a tale of how Steele had been shot once,
by the father of a girl barely ten. The girl had evidently
identified Steele as her rapist and then she’d mysteriously
disappeared. It was a few months before someone found the bent and
tortured body in the river. It was terribly decayed and twisted
horribly in the massive roots of a fallen tree, with a stone tied
around the neck.
    The monster had survived his wound,
little worse for wear, the arrow tip lodged in a fat pad that
festered on and off. The father faded away into a grief stricken
hollowness. Steele, undaunted, remained as cruel and foul as ever,
having gotten away with murder. Only now, he kept a clumsy sword
strapped to his side, the hilt practically hidden by his massively
draped, oily flesh. This was what Ravan had heard about this
man.
    Moving aside in an attempt to skirt
past them, he was cut off as Pierre stepped into his path. “Well,
well, what have we here? If it isn’t the maid!”
    Ravan instinctively backed away and
Pierre followed, stepping towards him. “No doubt he meant to rob
me!” The big man reached down to unbuckle the heavy belt that
tightly girded his enormous gut. “And look—he’s broken a
candlestick. I think he should be punished, don’t you?” he asked
his comrades. His mouth, unnaturally small for his massively meaty
head, twisted into a sickening grin.
    The two other men laughed outright,
goading him on, as though anticipating a show.
    Ravan edged backwards against the bed,
its lamb’s wool duvet pressed against the backs of his thighs. The
hair bristled on the nape of his neck and an icy shiver arched
across his shoulders.
    A sudden memory came upon him, of when
a she-bear and her cubs stumbled