Spring came early this year and the fields were red like poppy. Of course, this was a metaphor. It was too early for poppy to be in full bloom. A lesser poet would describe the field as blood-colored, by merit of the axe-wielding manbeast chopping some lowly serfs to smithereens.
Jonal was a man of refined tastes and sensibilities. There was no symmetry to the slaughter, no elegance to be found in the crude movements of the rampaging brute. Quite pointless, really, but then so was most of his comrades behaviour. If shortening a slew of peasants meant prolonged cooperation, Jonal had to repress his restraint and accept it as a minor inconvenience.
He dodged a running goat, fleeing from an enclosure that had been shattered by the Headsman’s blows. The animal came bah-ing at him, nearly soiling his long red overcoat with mud. He read in it a mixture of confusion, fear and joy. Amusing, wasn’t it? There they were, forcing their way through this mudhole of a village for no reason but his companion’s satisfaction. And while there were some unfortunate incidents, some good had come out of it. The little beast was now free to roam the majestic wilderness, no doubt happy to be spared the kettle of some dirtfarmer’s wife. From a certain angle, Headsman’s work actually had an artistic ring to it, bringing an equilibrium, like his own private of rebellion. Overturn the tyrants who had so cruelly locked away the lesser creatures. Jonal smiled. Why, yes, the delay suddenly grew that much more enjoyable – another crash, followed by some deranged scream too high for a woman even. Headsman had just spoiled Jonal’s romantic rendering of the scene by some senseless splitting of another goat. Ram? Doe? Jonal couldn’t really tell, as he had never particularly cared about animals that still had fur on them.
He sighed. Time to bring an end to this. He put one hand at his hip, the other to his mouth as a make-shift megaphone. It was not necessary, as his voice wouldn’t need to be heard to be _heard_, but some dramatic gesture underlining the conveyed emotion was simply pleasing.
“Hey, big one!” Hands remaining in their place he leaned forward, stood on one leg and bent the other one up behind his back like a scorpion’s tail. “Would you kindly lay down the manslaughter and hurry on?”
There was silence. The few stubborn farmers who had decided to fight the threat off dropped to the ground, their hands pressed against their ears. A brown bird fell to the ground a pace to Jonal’s left. Embarrassing. “I am deeply sorry, good people. Heartbroken, really.” One of them tried to get up, one hand about to reach for a cudgel. Jonal harrumphed and the man fell to the side, sodding. “It is quite impolite to listen in, though.” He turned to the Headsman. Unlike the others, the giant had not fallen. Even now, on his knees, he must have been six feet tall. The dull eyes on his unmoving silver face set on Jonal. Headsman did not speak; he never had, as far as Jonal could tell. Nor did he hear anything with those shiny metal ears of his, or he would have lain in the ground between his playthings. Jonal focused some more, this time directing his power directly at the giant. “Come, my friend, you had your time. There will be more exciting prey for you where we’re going.” The Headsman rose to his full size, now well above seven feet. Despite the massive bulk – he was almost two feet taller than the admittedly scrawny Jonal – he was elegant in his movements. Jonal watched his own reflection in the shifting body parts. It did not look like a motion orchestrated by the interplay of joint and muscle; instead there was a similarity to the octopus’s tentacle or the winding of a snake, with the interlocking bone structures being mere make-believe props. Jonal had suspicions regarding his comrade’s actual way of movement, but decided to dwell on it at a later point. Headsman had picked up his axe and strode towards him. Without further ado, Jonal the Herald pushed back a lock of oily black hair and turned around, his long coat swinging as if carried by a gust of wind. A step, a jump and on he lunged towards the monastery.
“It’s about time we visited some old friends, don’t you think?”
… if only to have the company of somebody interesting, he added in his thoughts. Somebody who could hold up the other end of a conversation. But no need to rub it in the silver man’s face. There is no point in being cruel, after all. He was an artist, not a ruffian.