Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 145 Horror Theater

The town was unusually lively; the two main roads, which were usually deserted, were now bustling with activity.

One farm truck after another was parked on the roadside, and the dirt road was crowded with small stalls.

The second Monday of every month is market day in Wolf Town. Not only do villagers from the surrounding villages come, but even Protestants who rarely interact with Catholics will show up.

That is why Lieutenant Winters Montagne placed the trial, execution, and lottery together on this day.

……

This remote border town is showing its vibrant side today.

Merchants from nearby towns flocked to the market, and local farmers also brought their surplus agricultural products to sell.

The honest farmer simply spreads a cloth on the ground, places the fruits and vegetables he has picked from the fields on it, and waits for people to come and ask about the price.

Meanwhile, the clever farmer was already having his beautiful daughter carry a willow basket and sell eggs along the street.

The sounds of hawking, bargaining, and arguing were incessant.

Because there was a public trial and execution of the bandits—this was a very significant event for farmers, and it might still be a topic of conversation twenty years from now.

So even farmers from neighboring towns brought their families to watch the spectacle, and a variety show troupe that was touring nearby also seized the opportunity to come and perform.

Everyone was scrambling to get a good spot, and the atmosphere in the town center was nothing like the solemnity one would expect from a trial, execution, or selection of soldiers; it was more like a grand celebration.

The newly formed Wolf Town Guard is patrolling the streets and maintaining order. The seven guards are fully armored and carry long halberds, looking very imposing.

The guards' weapons and armor had just been purchased from Gevordan—Winters and Girard had also added some equipment to the town's armory.

Since it's a rare trip to the county seat, I definitely want to get everything done in one go.

The Wolftown Guard currently consists of seven people: two full-time guards, Angru and Bell, who are both young boys, and five part-time guards, who are militiamen selected by Winters from various villages.

Although not a professional soldier, the farm boy wearing a gleaming iron helmet and brand-new leather armor was equally dashing.

It attracted the attention and whispers of many young women and wives, and also made their fellow villagers extremely envious.

A young man from Dussac put his arm around Vahika's neck and laughed, saying, "Great! You look quite dashing in this."

Out of respect for Sergei, the guard position in Dusa village was given to Vashika Morozov.

“Stop fooling around, I’m on duty,” Vahika replied with a smile.

The young man from Dussac looked him up and down: "Did you buy this set from Gevordan?"

"Of course, it's brand new, not even the paint is chipped."

"I'll borrow it to wear after today is over."

“I can’t take it home; I have to return it to the armory after I finish my duty.”

"Hey, what's the big deal? Just take it back secretly."

A silver-gray horse parted the crowd and passed by the two men. Vahika, who was chatting idly, caught a glimpse of the silver markings on the horse's belly and instantly shuddered.

Since the convoy returned from Gévordane, everyone in Wolfsburg knew of Lieutenant Montagne's "strong luck".

Vahika quickly stood at attention and saluted.

The lieutenant on horseback nodded and continued forward.

"Oh dear, you've really put me in a terrible situation," Vashika said to his companion with a mournful face.

"What's wrong with that?" the other person asked, puzzled.

"Never mind," Vahika urged his companion to hurry up, "We'll talk about it when we get back."

……

After touring the town center, Winters found nothing amiss.

However, on the roadside at the edge of town, he saw Girard arguing loudly with a strange young man.

Upon seeing Winters, Girard waved happily: "Lieutenant Montagne!"

Winters lightly spurred his horse and quickly moved forward.

“This is Lieutenant Montagne, the town’s resident officer,” Girard said to the young man. “You need his approval to do any business.”

"Good day, sir!" Before the lieutenant could speak, the young man interjected, "Although my business often suffers from unfair treatment and discrimination, it is absolutely reasonable and legal. Please see, this is the permit issued by the county garrison."

The young man handed over a roll of parchment.

After reading the contents of the paper, Winters looked behind the man:

Several large tents were pitched by the roadside, and a sickly old woman sat collecting money. Ragged men lined up to go in, then came out pulling up their trousers.

"Are you a pimp?" Winters asked, gripping his saber.

"Sir, please don't put it so harshly." The pimp had a fawning smile on his face: "I'm just an intermediary, connecting women with skills with men in need."

Winters, not wanting to waste any more words on this slippery fellow, examined the license again. The wording didn't seem fake, the ink didn't seem fake, and the signature didn't seem fake either.

The pimp's smile deepened as he watched the lieutenant re-examine the permit.

“It’s just a piece of parchment; I can’t tell if it’s real or fake,” Winters said indifferently.

The pimp's smile froze instantly: "How could that be? This is a special warrant personally signed by Major Ronald of Ghevorden. Please take a closer look."

"Then go back to Thevordan and bring me back another letter of proof?"

“Sir, there’s a hidden mark on this license that can prove its authenticity.” The pimp wiped the sweat from his brow and pleaded, “Please let me show it to you.”

Winters handed the license back.

As he clasped his hands together, the pimp discreetly slipped a bag of silver coins into the lieutenant's palm. "Is that enough now?" he thought.
But to his utter surprise, the "anti-counterfeiting mark," which had always been invincible, actually ran into trouble this time.

Winters tossed the money pouch in front of the pimp and asked coldly, "Don't you want your hands anymore?"

The young man fell to his knees in panic, begging for mercy and stammering, "Sir! This certificate is real! I was confused for a moment..."

"Wait here." Winters, seeing that the other party's expression didn't seem fake, pulled Girard along and headed towards the police station.

He was unfamiliar with Plato's laws, so this matter required the assistance of a legal expert.

……

After listening to Gilard's account, the old mendicant monk Reid placed the permit in his hand on the table and laughed, "Palatu did indeed allow brothels to operate legally; he really is in the right this time."

"Indecent!" Gerard roared, his anger blazing. "And venereal diseases! Thirty years ago, they ravaged countless Dusaks."

The old monk stroked his long beard and smiled, saying, "There are ways to legally ban them; it's not a difficult task."

"What?" Girard immediately perked up.

“He illegally occupied land in the town for business, so we can seize his personnel, tents and vehicles.”

"That kid's cunning; he deliberately pitched his tent outside of town."

"The entire land in Wolf Village belongs to the public. What difference is there between insiders and outsiders?" Brother Reed said casually. "Besides, in Plato, people who run such places need to be regularly checked by doctors and issued certificates before they can work. With all these procedures checked, if any link is missing, we can take them down."

Girard was speechless.

Winters advised old Dussac: "I see logging crews outside the tents. Those people are suffering, and they're surrounded by men. Giving them a way to relieve stress is safer for the town. Besides, the permit doesn't seem fake. Since that's the case, there's no need to make things difficult for that pimp. The best way is for the townspeople to keep their own sons in check."

Girard fell silent, and the town hall became quiet.

Seeing that old Dussac had been persuaded, Winters stood up and said, "I'll go talk to that pimp. He can only do it today. After today, he'd better get out of here."

Girard nodded slightly.

Brother Reid called out to the lieutenant who was walking towards the door: "Have you made up your mind?"

"Ah."

"That's good."

The door was pulled open from the outside, and Anglu hurriedly said to the lieutenant, "Sir, the executioner is ready."

……

In Wolf Town, any punishment for a person who breaks the law, up to the death penalty, can be decided solely by the resident official.

If the crime is serious, a three-person trial committee will be formed, consisting of the town mayor, the resident official, and an envoy sent by the county.

But for criminals like the "Horseshoe Ivan" gang—who are neither residents of Wolftown nor caught in the act—there is no trial committee, no right to defense; the charges are established, and Winters only needs to determine the sentence.

Winters habitually sought out Brother Reid for advice.

The old monk chuckled and said, "What's the point of determining the punishment? In the land of galloping horses, bandits and robbers are sentenced to death if they are caught. The only difference is how you want them to die."

“Among the criminals we arrested was a young boy, only a little over twelve years old.” Winters hesitated. “I’d like to know if Plato’s laws would allow for a reduced sentence for him?”

“No, but the sentencing power is yours. You can reduce the sentence however you want.” The mendicant monk was as calm as a deep pool: “But how much do you want it reduced to?”

"exile?"

“Palatu was not exiled. Besides, where would he be exiled to? This is already the frontier of the Cenas Alliance.”

"corporal punishment?"

“Cutting off a hand is tantamount to cutting off his chance of returning to the right path; even farm laborers do not accept people who have been tortured.”

"Labor? Flogging?"

"Don't you think this is too unfair to the dead people of Wolftown?" Reed said with a hint of sarcasm. "Legally speaking, Palatour does not recognize bandits and robbers as citizens of the Republic, so they naturally have no civil rights, and anyone can hunt them down."

A twelve-year-old child didn't join the gang voluntarily; he was forced into becoming a bandit. Therefore, reducing his sentence is meaningless. In a few years, you'll see him again in some gang in the newly reclaimed land. Ask the executioner; he'll tell you how many of the criminals he executes are repeat offenders.

"What should I do?"

“What should we do? Give him some property so he can support himself and won’t become a bandit again. But don’t you think that’s unfair to the dead people of Wolftown?” The old mendicant monk’s tone was calm: “You are the resident officer of Wolftown, not the Horseshoe Bandit Gang’s resident officer. Your duty is to protect this land and its people, not to worry about the fate of a bandit!”

……

Once the executioner was ready, the church bells rang out solemnly.

The guards of Wolf Town opened the prison doors and escorted the seven bandits all the way to the town square.

The crowd that lined the streets was at least a thousand people: farmers from five villages and Dusa people, farmhands working on the estate, estate owners on horseback and their wives and daughters in their carriages... Almost everyone from Wolftown came to town.

Seeing this formation, the guards' tense expressions were evident, and Gerard's forehead was also covered in sweat, fearing that any mishap would cause a commotion.

Suddenly, a woman pushed through the crowd, rushed to the prisoner's side, and began to beat him with a stone.

Vahika and another guard quickly stepped forward and separated the two. The woman was pushed aside and fell to the ground, weeping uncontrollably.

The bearded prisoner who had been beaten laughed and even spat at the woman.

Enraged by this, Vahika punched the bearded prisoner hard in the face.

The prisoner was beaten until his feet left the ground, and his nose and two front teeth were broken on the spot. Before he could spit out the blood in his mouth, another guard took out a rag and stuffed it full of blood.

A cheer erupted from the crowd, and the news spread like wildfire; people already knew that the woman was the wife of one of the deceased.

The people of Wolf Town present all made a living through hard work, and naturally harbored deep resentment towards the bandits. Coupled with their sympathy for the unfortunate woman, their anger burned even more fiercely.

From the police station to the town square, a short distance, stones mixed with curses were constantly being thrown at the prisoners.

The trial was simple. Several Dussacs recounted the events of the day of the ambush. Mr. Bentin also appeared in court to identify the perpetrators, tearfully demanding an eye for an eye.

After the simple process was over, the town square was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and people held their breath as they awaited the final ruling from the resident official.

The voice proclaiming the verdict was icy: "Death penalty, all of them."

Cheers spread from the front of the human wall to the back. The prisoners who had been gritting their teeth and holding on finally broke down in tears, with the most heartbreaking cries coming from the innocent voices of children.

But no one cared about their tears. The guards dragged the prisoners off the ground and escorted them to the execution ground, and the people followed the guards and swarmed towards the execution ground.

On an open space in the northwest of the town, the town's carpenters had erected a temporary platform a few days ago.

Franz Schmidt, the executioner revered as "Master Franz," was dressed in formal attire and was already waiting there with his assistant.

The closer they got to the execution ground, the more their emotions collapsed. Some prisoners struggled desperately, while others cried out and begged the onlookers for their blessing and leniency.

Once the condemned prisoner was brought to the execution ground, everything was taken over by the executioner Franz and his assistant. The guards visibly relaxed when the prisoner was handed over to the executioner.

What remains is the executioner's ritual performance.

Franz, a renowned teacher in his sixties, is sharp-eyed and vigorous. He has carried out hundreds of executions and has his own methods for dealing with death row inmates.

A death row inmate struggled and cursed desperately, and the executioner's assistant—Franz's sixteen-year-old grandson—could barely control him.

The old executioner strode forward and delivered a jab to the condemned prisoner's Adam's apple.

The burly man, who had been struggling and cursing, suddenly fell silent, clutching his throat and collapsing to the ground with a flushed face.

Franz ignored the prisoners who were simply chanting scriptures and begging for forgiveness.

The old executioner signaled to his grandson to execute the condemned man who had suffered a severe blow to the throat first. The two men lifted him onto a "judgment chair" on the execution platform and bound him with ropes.

Father Kaman stepped forward and allowed the condemned prisoner to kiss the scripture and listen to his final confession.

The noisy crowd gradually quieted down, and people watched intently as the executioner prepared, afraid of missing any detail.

The old executioner was dressed in a rather abrupt, peculiar, and flamboyant outfit: pink tights and light blue knee-length shorts on his lower body, and a blue and white collared bodysuit on his upper body.

He took off his hat as a sign of respect.

She put on a leather vest to prevent her shirt from getting stained with blood.

After completing the preparations, he nodded to his assistant. The assistant, understanding, respectfully presented the weapon to the executioner.

The old executioner gripped the hilt and drew the decapitation sword from its sheath in one swift motion.

The execution drama then reached its climax.

It was a weapon that could be described as a giant sword, with a blade over a meter long, weighing over six kilograms, a flat, pointless edge, and a blade of equal width from front to back; it was forged entirely for decapitation.
A line of text is engraved on the sword: "Beware of evil deeds, or you will be digging your own grave."

The execution ground was as silent as death itself.

The master craftsman Franz stood solemnly in position, raised the decapitation sword high behind his right shoulder, took a deep breath, and suddenly exerted his strength.

The sword traced an elegant arc in the air, severing the condemned prisoner's two cervical vertebrae from his right rear.

The head flew off, rolling to the edge of the execution platform, blood still gushing from the severed neck, splattering all over the executioner and his assistant.

The assistant picked up the head and held it high in the air, displaying it to the crowd around the execution platform.

Accompanied by several screams from women, the previously silent execution ground erupted into deafening cheers.

Harsh policies and excessive taxes led to rampant banditry, which in turn inevitably resulted in harsh laws and severe punishments.

Brother Reed's words were ruthless and truthful: the question was not whether the bandits lived or died, but how they should die.

"How do you want them executed?" The master executioner asked Winters the same question when they met.

Burning at the stake, hanging, drowning, wheel-dripping, dismemberment by chariot... each method of execution corresponds to a different crime.

Execution is not just about killing criminals; the execution itself is a grand performance.

The public trial, the parade before the execution, and the execution itself constitute the three major elements of this horrific spectacle.

Honest and law-abiding people struggle to make ends meet, while thieves, robbers, and bandits can reap without sowing. Ordinary people hate bandits, but also secretly envy them.

Public executions were not only meant to deter the public, but also to demonstrate the authority of secular rulers and to provide a channel for honest, hardworking families to vent their grievances.

The calm and reliable executioner, representing public authority, executes criminals in a procedural and ritualistic manner, and is the soul that maintains the fragile and delicate balance among the three parties.

Beheading—the method of death chosen by the Montagne garrison commander—did not cause much pain, and was clean and swift.

It is also the only execution method that respects the dignity of the deceased.

The renowned teacher Franz glanced at the remaining six death row inmates and, upon seeing the sobbing child, thought, "Heinrich [Franz's grandson] is probably only a few years older than him."

He gestured to his assistant that the next one would be the youngest death row inmate.

Every breath taken at the execution ground is torture for the condemned prisoner; this is the executioner's mercy.

"That bearded guy who spat at the deceased's family," Franz thought. "Let him be the last one."

The execution scene in this chapter is based on "The Faithful Executioner," a book about the life of a 16th-century executioner, but it has been adapted to fit the book's setting.

Thank you to all the readers who voted for the book before;

Thank you to fellow reader Jiang Xue Diao Weng for the monthly pass;
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(End of this chapter)