THREE

  BURNED

  Tied to the stake above a large wood pile, about to be burned at the stake, Leihant von Geissler was only sure of five things. Realizing that he was suffering from severe memory loss and couldn’t be sure of much else, he did try to take some comfort in the surety of these things.

  The fifth thing he was sure of was his name. Through the unwelcome application of magic and pain by a less-than-friendly Inquisitor, Leihant von Geissler was now absolutely sure that he was indeed Leihant von Geissler. Rolling the name around in his head just felt right.

  The fourth was that he was a Wizard. He couldn’t fully remember all the details of what a Wizard was, but he was certain that he was a Wizard. Or rather, he had been. He was pretty sure that most Wizards would have a functioning memory.

  For the third, he had realized after attempting to analyze his situation and surroundings that he was probably intelligent. Probably. A truly intelligent Wizard would probably not have gotten himself stuck in the situation he was in right now. Regardless, Leihant believed that his constant thinking and self-reflection seemed to be a mark of intelligence, even if his utter lack of memory and current state meant he could do little with it. It was a very interesting thing to note that all the villagers surrounding him seemed shorter than himself, thinner in the limbs, a bit gaunt in the cheeks. He was sure there was a word to describe this, and he that he had learned it in the past. It made for some semi-interesting thinking.

  Second, the cat inside the sack tied beneath his neck was being quite annoying and frustrating. It seemed to exert most of its energy on howling, thrashing, and attempting to hurt anything it could reach through the sack with its claws, which was mostly Leihant. He wasn’t sure if he should be truly angry at the cat, in many ways he was tempted to just give into his own emotions and copy its actions. There was a stubborn part of his mind that refused, as if any outbursts would a form of surrender to his captors.

  The final and first thing Leihant von Geissler was absolutely sure of was his imminent death.

  Unless someone did something to help him, he figured out a way to escape, or a spontaneous miracle manifested, he was going to die a terribly painful and fiery death, burned alive at the stake.

  Leihant seemed to be alone in his disliking of this state of affairs, as everyone else in the village square was only too happy to start the burning. Some villagers were making final adjustments to the wood pile, some were handing out small branches and bark to children to be tossed in later, many were dancing to to the music of a few drummers. All of them were smiling and eager.

  There was actually a sixth thing to be sure of, he realized. There was a most terrible itch on his nose that he could not scratch, seeing as his hands were tied. Trying to lower his face and rub against the sack was dissuaded by a firm rebuttal by the cat, along with claws poking through the fabric. The itch was very annoying.

  He supposed his burning bonfire would indeed look quite spectacular when all lit up. For as long as it would burn, it would cast back the night, warm the body, maybe provide a perfect place to grill some food on a stick. Fun for the whole family.

  The servants of the Inquisitor began pouring oil onto the wood pile, doing their best to drench it. Leihant had a faint hope that the constant rain would put a stop to any large fire, but the sheer quantity of oil they were using put that thought to rest.

  Some of the oil jugs and containers were given out to some of the villagers, who cheered as they began splashing it out onto the wood pile. One of them aimed high and laughed, drenching Leihant in oil.

  “No more of that!” called out the Inquisitor, directing a servant to clamber up and wipe the oil off of the Wizard, “he is to roast in the flames and suffer, we don’t want him to die too quickly.”

  Leihant rolled his eyes. Seeing this, the Inquisitor frowned.

  “Any last words, Leihant?”

  “I will not beg for mercy.”

  “You believe that now, but I assure you, by the end you will scream for it,” said the Inquisitor with a smug and cruel smile, “they all do.”

  Leihant believed him.

  Tied up there on the wood pile for some hours, he had been thinking a great deal about how to escape. Beyond suddenly remembering a powerful spell or some magic words that would whisk him away to safety, he had no solutions. He was going to die in a matter of minutes now, his final moments spent wallowing in fear, misery, and the constant presence of the terrible itch on his nose.

  He couldn’t just run away. His ankles were tied to the wooden pole.

  He couldn’t fight his way out. Maybe, whoever he had once been, he had boasted at some point about beating an opponent with one, single hand tied behind his back, but the current Leihant was pretty sure he definitely could not do it with both of them in such a condition.

  A servant holding a large torch, more of a brazier, walked up to the Inquisitor. Leihant realized he could no longer see the strange, hooded figure with the blue-smoke thurible, they had vanished at some point.

  The Inquisitor pulled something else out of his coat and began screwing it to the end of the rod. It looked like a single letter, “M,” set inside of a circle.

  As the Inquisitor placed the working end of the rod into the torch held by his servant, Leihant realized it was not an, “M,” at all, but a, “W,” and quailed in fear. His memory, unhelpful so far, spat out a single name for this. It was a brand.

  And it was heating up quite rapidly in the fire.

  “One last step, one final act we must perform, before we send this sinner to Hell,” declared the Inquisitor, holding up the red-hot brand, “he must be marked so that in both this world and the next, all can see his crime.”

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  Two guards climbed onto the wood pile, holding down Leihant, keeping his head still.

  The Inquisitor grimaced, then pressed the brand into Leihant’s forehead.

  The pain was incredible. It was a stabbing lance, then it just went on and on. He could hear his own skin sizzling. Even without his memories, he doubted he had felt anything like this.

  He was screaming before he was aware of it.

  The Inquisitor stepped back, the guards let him go, the brand was removed. The red-hot pain was gone, now a lingering, unending agony remained.

  Leihant’s thoughts were like leaves in a storm, he was unable to grab any as they flickered before the forefront of his mind, but then something stuck.

  “What if,” said Leihant quietly, with a sad and pained laugh, “what if those in the world beyond this, think the letter stands for Witch?”

  The Inquisitor turned around, the shadow of a smile on his lips, his hushed words only for Leihant.

  “I could not say. I use the same brand for both. I’ve never had complaints.”

  Then he walked away, putting away his tools.

  Leihant wasn’t sure if the moisture on his face was from tears, or if it was more of the rain. He didn’t care. He was going do die, but now in a bit more pain from the brand. It made little difference. The itch on his nose remained just as bad.

  With a sigh, Leihant finally scratched his nose and removed the itch, his mind trying to think of something clever he could say to the villagers before he died, maybe a call to justice, maybe insults, something.

  It really was hopeless.

  Suddenly, he perked up. He realized what he had just done.

  He had scratched his nose. How had he done that? His hands were still tied behind his back.

  He definitely had felt something. He had definitely done something. He simply had no idea how.

  He sighed again, holding his chin in one hand. Here was an unsolved mystery right before him, and he was going to die without figuring it out. It was almost as frustrating as the itch.

  He closed his eyes, he tried to focus on this question, possibly, probably, the last question of his life. He thought of the cold he felt as his memories were being pulled out of him by the Inquisitor, the specific pain when his name was yanked out. He tried to overlap the echo of those sensations with his thoughts and question, how he was able to scratch his own nose with two hands tied.

  Suddenly, he had it. He had the answer. Or rather, he already had the answer, he didn’t know it.

  His name was Leihant.

  It meant Song-Hand.

  Because… Because he had a song-hand. He had always had a song-hand.

  It was like another part of his body, more than a finger, less than a limb. Realizing it was there was like being told to to breathe, or seeing the nose in personal eyesight, always there, mostly forgotten.

  Leihant couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t understand it. In his current situation, he didn’t want to waste any more time trying to think about it, he needed to use it.

  He could escape.

  His heart was pounding, clarity and purpose pouring into his mind and body. His eyes were open, flickering right and left to see anything he could use. He began trying to reach out with the song-hand, poking his own face, rubbing his nose, then reaching out further.

  With the song-hand, he could feel the coarse, fraying rope that bound his hands to the wooden pole. He could feel the prickly texture, the curving knots.

  Leihant realized something. Something very important.

  These villagers were awful at tying rope.

  If he was very strong, he could have pulled himself loose, the knot simply slipping apart under force. That could have been a problem if the villagers were restraining someone big, or they didn’t stop the person trying to escape.

  If someone walked up behind him, they could pull a single rope and undo the knot. This was a pretty big design flaw but didn’t matter if the person tied up couldn’t reach that point of the rope, so every other day, for every other prisoner, this would never have mattered much.

  With the song-hand, Leihant could have untied his hands at any point in the last few hours. He could do it now, in the minutes before his death.

  Looking down at his feet, he realized his ankles were tied to the pole in the same way. Trying to touch these ankle-ropes with the song-hand took active effort, he could feel muscles across his body beginning to strain, just a bit, but he did it. He could reach down.

  He could untie himself quickly, just two pulls with the song-hand, no need to even reach down with his hands.

  Leihant caught himself before he smiled. He could escape. But first, he needed a distraction, something to stop them all from chasing him and tying him up again.

  He saw a villager holding a small jug of oil, standing beside a servant holding a torch. The man was happy, eager to throw the oil when the signal was given, talking to his friends. The servant was trying to ignore a different villager trying to sell him something. The jug was open.

  Could Leihant reach that far with the song-hand? They were close to the wood pile. He had reached down to his feet, this was quite a bit further. He had to try.

  Stretching out the song-hand, projecting it, he knew he was almost half-way there. He was straining with his entire body, it felt like every muscle was lifting and pulling and pushing at once.

  The Inquisitor made some signals with his hands, servants and guards began slowly moving.

  This was it. The final minute of his life, unless he could reach just a bit further.

  Leihant held his eyes shut, his limbs beginning to shake, his mouth grimacing.

  He was almost there, just a hands-span away but already he knew he had reached a limit, a personal best.

  None of the villagers were dancing anymore, but the drummers remained, louder and faster now. A great thrum of anticipation was spreading through the crowd.

  Leihant pushed further. If there was a limit to his song-hand, he had to go beyond it, just this once. His teeth were grinding against each other, his entire body was now shaking. He was so close.

  The Inquisitor raised his arms.

  “Now is the moment! Now the villain faces justice! Shining Lady! By our hands your judgment will be done!” he shouted.

  Leihant touched the small jug of oil, just a tap. The song-hand itself was jittering, flickering, it wanted to snap back.

  The crowd cheered and roared in joy.

  Leihant screamed. Rain drenched his body and, but he knew the liquid he felt trailing from his ears was not water. He pushed, one last time.

  The Inquisitor realized something was wrong, he pointed at Leihant and yelled. The crowd thought he was giving the final signal they were waiting for, they cheered.

  The small, open jug of oil shot up out of the villager’s hand, spraying out liquid. The man stumbled back in shock, beginning to scream in fear.

  Then the thin stream of oil hit the torch beside it.

  Instantly, the liquid was alit and a blazing line of fire was in the air. Several people screamed.

  Leihant rejoiced. He had done it.

  The jug of oil landed on the ground, spilling a puddle of oil. In the blink of an eye, it too was alight, along with what was spattered on those nearby.

  The panic spread faster than the flames. More villagers screamed, dropping their own oil where it caught aflame as well. Some of the servants were tripped up, their own containers landing in the mud.

  In the span of a few seconds, Leihant was surrounded by a ring of fire. He let himself laugh, his plan had worked perfectly. Everyone was distracted, he could run away into the forest, into the night, nobody would notice.

  All he had to do was untie his hands. He reached once more with the song-hand.

  He tried to reach with the song-hand.

  He couldn’t reach with the song-hand.

  The song-hand was gone.

  He had overworked it, over-strained it, something had gone wrong.

  He couldn’t untie his hands.

  The flames reached the wood pile and quickly began to burn.

  Leihant was surrounded by a much closer ring of fire. His bare feet were warming up. His plan had backfired.

  He laughed again. That was a pun. He remembered another thing now, he liked puns.

  He was still laughing as the flames grew higher.