Interlude 17

D ieno, the Mink, did not think highly of the means by which he was to be executed.

“Surely,” he said, hands tied behind his back as he lay with his head against the headsman’s block, “you can think of something better than this. ”

Like most of the soldiers in the courtyard below, the judiciary who led the execution was Herdazian. She wore a robe that tied to one shoulder, with singer markings on it, and was accompanied by a squad of bulky warforms. Dieno had seen this multiple times: a conqueror often put some enterprising local in charge. It let the people pretend they had some semblance of self-rule. All you needed was a traitor or two.

“Tie me to a boulder and launch me into the ocean with a catapult,” Dieno said, his face pressed against the wood. “Now that would be something. If you’re feeling spicy, you could throw me from a tower and see how many archers could hit me before I land. Good target practice, that.”

The judiciary actually paused, seeming to consider, before one of the singer minders shoved her on the shoulder. So she continued reading Dieno’s crimes.

A beheading? Really? What an indignity. Dieno sighed, glad his crimes had been so exhaustive, as it gave him time to plan. There was always a way out.

Though … this situation was looking rough.

He’d had the Windrunners land his people a couple days’ march from the Herdazian capital. Getting too close would have put everyone on alert. After that, he’d led his troops through a series of caves he’d played in as a child, ones that traveled underground and came up close to the city.

It had been a brilliant plan. He’d been quite proud of it. It would have been wonderful if they hadn’t run into a series of cave-ins.

In the years since he’d played here, the caves had become unstable. Everstorm, likely. He hadn’t accounted for that, and his troops had been literally stonewalled three times trying to navigate the caverns. Eventually they’d been forced to come out and cross an open field of stone.

The moon had emerged at just the wrong moment. It seemed fate itself had turned on him. An entire army had mobilized against them—and what had been planned as a glorious rescue had ended last night. He hadn’t even reached the city.

They’d brought his troops and him to an outpost by the ocean, well away from the capital. Herdaz was not going to be saved by him; he’d have to hope for Dalinar and his contest. Dieno himself might not even see the hour arrive, unless …

“Hey,” he shouted, “could you at least use a mallet?”

They paused again.

“A … mallet?” the judiciary asked.

“Sure. Smash my head,” Dieno said. “Instead of just cut it off. All these people came to watch. You need to give them something worth witnessing.”

“A mallet would be incredibly painful,” the judiciary said.

“But a better story, ” Dieno said. “Come on. I’m a legend. You can’t have a legend dying by a mere beheading, can you? Singers. You talk about passion and song. Well, we need a better song today if Dieno the Mink is going to die.”

Their humming changed. Mention passion, and it sometimes worked for them.

“Do we … have a mallet?” the judiciary asked.

There. The headsman looked away from Dieno to reply. There. Shouldn’t have taken his eyes off his charge.

“I don’t have one,” the headsman said. “But—”

Dieno slipped the ropes from his wrists with a couple of quick contortions. A second later, he yanked the chain around his neck—in the hands of a headsman’s assistant—and threw the boy off balance. Dieno hit him a second later, shoving him from the execution platform.

The crowd cheered, which shocked those on the podium. Yes, the audience of gathered soldiers were ostensibly on their side—Herdazians and singers who served the invaders. But Dieno was certain every person had come expecting to have a story to tell at the end. He would see them have a proper finale, one way or another.

The Mink would not fall to a headsman. Indeed, the man lifted his axe and swung, but Dieno was yanked out of the way—and completely off the execution platform—by the falling man who still held his chain. Dieno came down on top of the youth, heard something crack in his chest, and bounced free.

Dieno patted him on the cheek. “Broken ribs. Three months’ bed rest, lad. Spend it thinking about how you’ve chosen to side with the enemy.” He pulled the chain free of the groaning youth’s hands, then swung it up and used it to block the attack of the singer guards charging for him.

He escaped under the wooden platform itself. It had been erected to give the courtyard a good view of his death, but the narrow confines of the wooden beams down here blocked the warforms in their bulky, unremovable armor, while Dieno … well, he could get through almost any gap.

Chaos and shouting followed him as he slipped out near some steps up onto the fort’s wall. Other exits were blocked, but perhaps he could find a way to hop off it to safety. He reached the top, but found soldiers on every side, advancing. He looked across the ocean, shrouded in mist, the moon rising on the last evening before the contest.

There was no place to jump. He was trapped at last. Dieno steeled himself, hoping they had their bows ready to give it a good show, and climbed onto the top of the battlement. It was fifty feet to the stones below. Escaping today had been a frail hope anyway. You couldn’t stay ahead of the wind forever. Not even someone like him. He’d given Herdaz his all, but how many times could your heart break for a kingdom before your soul bled out? He quietly acknowledged that he’d done all he could, then prepared to jump.

A thumping shook the ground and made him pause. Behind, guards and soldiers reaching to seize him stopped short. The wall trembled, the ground boomed.

A greatshell the size of a city emerged from the darkened fog, big enough to tower over the entire fort.

“Well now,” Dieno said. “ That’s a finale.”