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Unnamed Mousie - Part 1: The Longest Day - Chapter 4: Unnamed

© 2015 - 2018 Nameless

A moment later I heard the sound of marching boots approaching. Hessans soldiers entered, a full squad (ten) led by a petty officer. All were big, huge even and armed to the teeth. Several of them carried sacks. The sacks were placed on the ground near where our master sat. The officer took up a position next to the chair while four of the soldiers waited behind him. I heard the clink of chains as one of them removed something from one of the sacks. The rest spread out across the room, ready to quash any resistance from us. Our master exchanged a few words with the officer in his foreign tongue. The officer replied haltingly, apparently he did not know the language very well. Then our master pointed at the cat femme, the first one to have begged for slavery. The officer nodded and the four soldiers started forward. Two of them, perhaps the biggest furs I had ever seen, grabbed her arms roughly, forcing them up behind her back, not caring that they ground her face into the floor, or even doing it on purpose. The third fur put manacles around her wrists. The manacles looked heavy and strong enough to restrain a bull. There was only a single link of chain between them. The fourth soldier waited, holding more chains in his arms. Her paws securely bound, the two lifted her easily, each holding one of her arms with a single paw. With the other paw they lifted her legs until the ankles were about hip-high, making it easy for the third fur to shackle them without having to crouch down. The shackles looked even heavier than the manacles. When they set her down on her feet I saw that there was no more than a foot of chain between the two shackles. The fourth fur shook out a sack and pulled it over her head. But it wasn't meant to cover the head, a small hole had been cut at the bottom of the sack (now the top) to allow him to pull it down so it covered her body while her head looked out of the hole. A shiver of fear ran through me when I made sense of what I saw. There was only one reason a fur wore such a sack as her only piece of clothing: when she went to the temple to confess a serious crime, ask for atonement and pray for absolution. And there was only one reason a fur would be shackled under the sack-cloth: When a convicted criminal was taken to the temple for her last time, for a final confession before her date with the headman. My head came up in alarm. As soon as my jaw lost contact with the ground my collar tightened around my neck, choking me. I gave up within moments, dropping back to the ground, hugging it as closely as I could. As soon as my jaw hit the ground once more, the collar started loosening, but only slowly. Others got a little further in their mindless but ultimately useless protest. Some managed to get to their knees, a few even to their feet, but none managed to take more than two or three steps before their collars chocked the strength out of them and their legs buckled and failed. The Hessans rushed forward, kicking and beating all those who had managed to leave their assigned spot. They stopped after a few blows, allowing those unlucky furs to crawl back to their spot and to prostrate themselves once more. All did, except for one male who refused to move. They beat him with their cudgels while the collar continued to choke him. By the time they finally dragged him back to his spot, his eyes were bulging and his face had turned purple. Even then he tried to resist, but he gave up eventually and prostrated himself. At a word from our master his assistant got up and walked down the center of the barn, pointed his wand at every fur who had moved more than than a few inches. Marks appeared on the collars of the furs he pointed at. I breathed a sigh of relief when he passed by me. One of the guards led the shackled femme out of the barn and returned a moment later. The four returned to their task. There was no further protest as we were shackled on by one and led outside to whatever fate awaited us. Then it was my turn. I offered no resistance, even raised my arms on my own, but they ground my face into the floor just the same when they lifted my paws high. It took only a few moments before I was securely bound and my body was in the sack. I was dragged as much as led outside. The others were waiting only a few steps away, but off to one side where they could not be seen from inside the barn. At least two full squads of soldiers surrounded us, drawn weapons in their paws. I took my place at the end of the line and waited. Chains clinked as the next fur was led to stand behind me, then another. It did not take long before we were all assembled. The tread of heavy boots told me that the Hessans had followed us out of the barn and then they took up positions around us. I did not dare to look around (we stood facing roughly towards the northeast), but I could tell that it was late in the day. The sun was still up but low in the sky. Our master, his assistant and the officer moved to the head of our line. At a barked command from the officer the small procession set out. We walked back into the keep and crossed the courtyard where I had been so thoroughly humiliated a short while, a lifetime ago. We passed through a gate into a smaller courtyard. My steps were leaden, my mind caught between numbness and panic as we approached the open doors of a temple.

I shivered when we entered the temple and not just from the cold air inside. The familiar and (at least under different circumstances) comforting smell of incense filled the air. I had not had much use for religion while I was trying to survive on the street, apart from trying to get alms every now and then, but since I had joined the army, I had visited the temple regularly, mainly because all of my mates did the same. And because the prayers and the priest's blessings offered a little peace of mind for someone who might have to lay down her life at any time. The atmosphere was similar, even if the decorations were different from what I was used to. Several pews had been removed at the front of the central aisle, to make space for us to kneel. Sinners always knelt on the cold hard floor. I took my place without protest, as did most of my fellow slaves, but a few had to be persuaded. A few of us required prompting but a couple of painful blows took care of the manner within a few moments. Our master sat down in the right aisle, together with his aide and the officer sat in the next pew. Our master turned to us and commanded, "Look straight ahead." I obeyed and suddenly a strange leaden feeling spread through my limbs. To my horror I found that I could not move at all. I breathed freely but suddenly panic rose up in me. I struggled against the strange bonds, but not one of my muscles responded. I could not even control my breathing. The only part of me I could move were my eyes. The panic subsided slowly to be replaced by numbness. After a while I found out something puzzling: I could move my head, but only up and down and even that only for a fraction of an inch; I could nod, but I could not move my head in any other way. I did not even have control over my eyelids. They blinked on their own every now and then, to keep my eyes moisturized. Once we were completely immobilized the Hessan soldiers sheathed their weapons and took their places in the pews on either side and behind us. Nothing happened for a long time. Well, it was probably only a few minutes but it felt like forever. I heard footsteps and another officer joined my master. This one wore a very expensive looking uniform, adorned not only with his unit colors but also a personal crest, indicating that he was a landed noble in addition to having a high military rank. I did not know the what insignia the Hessans used to indicate the rank, but big golden stars could only mean a very high rank. He exchanged pleasantries with our master, some in our language and some in a foreign language. Soon afterwards the bells and gongs sounded, the chords indicating that a special service was about to begin. A door opened at the back of the temple and chanting filled the air. Six acolytes filed in, walked past us and took their places around the altar. The priest; no it was a bishop!; took his place behind the altar as the last notes of the hymn faded. He turned to the picture of an empty starburst, the only image of God we are allowed to see in this world. Everybody, apart from us poor sinners, stood while he said the ritual words of greeting. He turned back to face us, said the ritual benediction for the congregation and they sat down again. He looked us over, then he sighed and began, "We have come here today, not to praise God but to address a serious, nay a grave matter. Crimes have been committed, most heinous crimes. Sinners, you are accused of committing grave crimes during the recent battle. Only chance and God's grace allowed our brave Soldiers to stop the crimes and bring these sinners to justice." He turned to the officer, "Colonel, Count Nessfan, would you detail the charges laid at the feet of these sinners?" I felt as if somebody had pulled out the ground from beneath my feet, dumbfounded and utterly betrayed. How could a man of God participate in such a vile scheme? The officer, apparently a colonel, stood and bowed, "Of course, Your Grace." He pulled out a large scroll, unrolled it and began to read, "A troop of heavy infantry was returning to camp when they heard noises coming from the ruins of an abandoned farm and advanced on it to investigate. Inside they found a horrible scene. The accused and the rest of their troop had earlier surprised a squad of Hessan light archers. Since they were surrounded and heavily outnumbered the archers surrendered. They were taken prisoners, disarmed and bound as is lawful under the circumstances. Then they were led back towards the enemy lines, but they never reached the enemy camp. They were instead taken into said ruins. There their ordeal began. They were forced to disrobe at sword-point and tied up until they were completely helpless. Some were tied to rusting hooks or other fixtures, one to a wagon wheel, others to one of trees that had started to grow in the ruins. The females were raped, as were a some of the males. They were cut with knives, branded with a dagger heated in a small fire and worse. Our brave heavy infantry charged and quickly overwhelmed these criminals, killing a number of them. The rest," here he pointed in our direction, "were taken prisoner. Describing in detail the torture inflicted on our archers would turn even a headman's stomach. One of the females was dead, bled out when she was stabbed with daggers in the cleft between her legs. One male died of his wounds before he could be taken to a healer. One male was unmanned. One female was blinded, another female and a male each lost one eye. All of them had been beaten and cut, some had smaller parts of their bodies, like fingers or ears, cut off." He turned to the bishop, "This, Your Grace, is what these criminals are accused of. The enmity between Hessa and Arno has always been deep and more than once have the rules of chivalry been broken, but this... The enormity of these crimes leaves even an old soldier like myself speechless." Unlike him I was really speechless and not just because of the collar. Crimes like he described called not just for execution but a long torture. Or even worse... Suddenly I had an idea where this was headed and felt sick. At the time I didn't even think about it, but later, much later, I could see the irony. They accused us, more or less, exactly of what they were actually doing to us. True, not so much the physical aspects, they did not mutilate us, but the mental torture they inflicted on us was as bad or worse. "Heinous crimes indeed. Do you have proof of these accusations?" "Yes, Your Grace." He pulled out another scroll, "Here I have signed statements and depositions. And signed confessions by some of the accused." One of the acolytes took the scrolls and passed them on. The bishop unrolled the first scroll and began to read. After a terribly long wait he put the other scroll down and declared, "Everything seems to be in order." After pretending to consider the issue he went on, "For a crime of this magnitude there can be only one punishment. Their names will be stricken from the rolls of the faithful." I could not have imagined this in my worst nightmares. This simple declaration was more devastating than all the humiliations and pain inflicted on me since I was taken prisoner taken together. Excommunication was a horrible fate, it would condemn you to the fires of hell, but even that could be atoned for and perhaps reversed in time. Even if your soul went straight to hell, you might earn redemption in the fullness of time. But if you were stricken from the rolls of the faithful, not even the devil would touch your diseased soul, leaving you to howl for all eternity in the empty void. After your name was taken you would be branded with the evil moon (a sickle moon at the bottom of the circle, looking like horns). No decent fur would help anybody with this brand, and not so decent furs were more likely to rob, rape, torture or kill you than aid you. Often a fur marked like this would be killed afterwards, always in a slow and horrible manner, but usually he was send into exile with nothing but the sack to cover herself with. Or he might be enslaved, usually consigned to the worst jobs where he was not expected to survive for long, such as the tin mines. It looked likely that the last would be our fate, though I doubted that we would be taken to the tin mines. "Do you have the names of the accused?" "Yes, Your Grace." The officer produced a small scroll. The bishop sent one of the acolytes to fetch the rolls (the scroll or book where all important events of a diocese are documented). He scanned the list and then waited for the acolyte to return. Almost imperceptibly at first, the collar began to tighten once more. At first there was just a slightly increased pressure around my neck (so far the collar had always been tight, the pressure was not really uncomfortable but always present, like wearing a shirt that only just fit, buttoned up all the way, but then it slowly began to restrict the air. My breathing didn't even change in speed, I could just hear a tiny wheezing sound. My lungs didn't burn yet, but they felt tight. The collar didn't tighten any further after that but even though I could not control my breathing, every breath felt like a struggle. I started feeling a little light-headed. At some point I moved my head up and down a little bit and the pressure around my neck lessened a little. After a while it slowly returned to the previous tightness, though another all but imperceptible nod loosened the collar once more. By the time the acolyte had returned with the rolls another had fetched pens and an ink pot and placed them by the lectern. He unrolled the scrolls and started writing. The bishop picked up the small scroll again and off read a name, then he looked up and asked, "You are called to account for your crimes. Identify yourself." Nothing happened for a moment and then I noticed that the eyes of the female feline next to me bulged. After a bit she nodded and a few moments later her expression eased. "You are accused of terrible crimes, you raped, tortured and killed helpless prisoners. Speak up if you wish to dispute this." Once more her eyes bulged a little, but I realized that it was not because she was choking but from strain, she was fighting, trying to speak with all her might but nothing happened. To anyone who wasn't watching her eyes closely it would look as if she was defiantly silent. "So be it. Do you confess your crimes?" Her expression had begun to change while he talked, soon her eyes bulged even further as the collar choked her. Her face had begun to darken and then she finally could not take the strain any more and she nodded, condemning herself. "Let the rolls show that the accused confessed her crimes. Her name will be stricken from the rolls of the faithful." The acolyte's pen scratched over the paper, sealing the end of her life (at least in a certain manner). After that her expression seemed to ease. I realized just how fiendish our master used the collars to force us to condemn ourselves. But knowing this didn't help me any. When my turn came I held out as long as I could before the burning in my lungs forced me to nod. Once, twice, sealing my fate and then I was allowed to breathe freely once more. When we had all condemned ourselves the acolytes started a chant in a mournful air. The bishop walked forward, followed by one of the acolytes who carried a small pot with a foul smelling concoction. A balm not for blessings but for cursing us. One by one he anointed us with it, smearing a little of the stuff above each eye, on the sides and top of the muzzle and on the nose. I gagged at the smell when the foul concoction was smeared over my nose, but since I was still paralyzed I could not even breathe through the mouth. Looking somber, even sad he spoke the ritual words that cast us out of the faithful, removed God's blessings and cast our soul into the Void. At the end of the short prayer (or maybe curse was a better word for it) his fingers touched my brow. A tingle ran through my body. It felt as if somebody had walked over my grave, in a way he had. For a moment I felt a searing pain deep inside me, it felt as if a piece of my soul had been cut out. He walked back to the lectern and wrote in the scroll. Then he returned to the altar, spoke a short benediction (which did not include us), bowed before the image of God and then the service was over. "Have these criminals branded so that every faithful follower shall know their crimes from their face." "Yes, Your Grace." The acolytes started chanting once more and filed out after the bishop.

When he was gone the magical shackles lifted from my limbs. We were ushered out of the temple. My mind was so numb that I simply walked where I was directed, neither noticing or caring what happened to me. It took me a took me a while to notice that we had reached our goal, the smithy. My eyes were watching, my ears listening but at the time I was almost dead to the world. My mind was numb and racing at the same time, thinking futile thoughts about nothing and everything. Still, somehow the pictures, sounds and smells were burned into my brain, branding my mind just as painfully as the brand on my left cheek did my body. Only later did I wonder why the smith had not just one, but four branding irons with the evil moon symbol. In the city of Arno, the largest city in this part of the world, one or at most two furs might be branded like this in a year. And I would have known if there were more, everybody would know about it as it was usually a public spectacle. The irons were already in the fire when we got there. We had to kneel in a half-circle around the anvil where the branding would take place. The first fur, a female weasel was led to the anvil and made to kneel on it. The anvil sat on top of a stump that was just wide enough that a fur could kneel there if she straddled the anvil closely. When she had assumed her position the smith picked up a branding iron (a cold one), pulled up the sack she wore and touched the iron to her crotch, just barely missing her lower lips. With a grin he asked, "Wouldn't she look pretty with a brand here? What do you think, Sir?" Our master looked at her, stroking his chin. She whimpered in distress, but she didn't (or more likely couldn't) move, not even a single muscle. Her whimper was in such a low voice, barely audible over the fire, yet it shook me, it was the first noise any of us had made all day. She breathed an audible sigh of relief when our master shook his head. But the relief was quickly tempered when he added, "Not today, good smith. Maybe another time." "As you wish, Sir. The door is always open." The waiting until the irons were hot enough was nerve-wracking, at least for her, I was still mostly numb but my mind cleared slowly. The smith tested the temperature of the iron several times by spitting on it until he was satisfied. The femme's eyes grew wider and wilder every time. Her eyes started bulging and she whimpered when he finally turned to her, holding the red hot branding iron. The whimper turned into a high pitched scream when the branding iron touched her left cheek. Her voice was still low, it sounded as if it came from far away, but the intensity of the scream testified to the extremity of her pain. The stink of burned fur and skin filled the air. She didn't move a muscle the whole time. The screams turned into groans but she did not pass out. They let her rest for a minute and then lifted her down from the anvil. Now that she was no longer paralyzed her legs failed. The guards had to carry her back to her spot and then hold her upright for a while before she could stay upright (if kneeling) on her own. The smith doused the used branding iron in cold water. An apprentice took the branding iron when it was cold and cleaned off bits of burned skin and leather before he returned it to the fire to be heated once more. The next fur, the male fox from my unit was led to the anvil. He struggled a little but the two strong males who handled him had little trouble getting him into place. Once he was there his muscles locked, leaving him as helpless as the femme before him. Once more the smith teased him (it was a torture for all of us to watch) about adding a second brand. The branding iron touched his balls. Once more our master declined. A few minutes later his far away sounding screams filled my ears, lower but no less pain filled than the femme's. He was lifted off the anvil and managed to return to his place more or less under his own power. They did not brand us in the order we knelt but our master chose the next fur by random choice, at least it seemed that way. Each time our master looked us over, his finger swinging this way or that before settling down to point at one of us terror paralyzed my mind. Each time another fur was chosen I breathed a sign of relief. The now almost constant groans but ever changing of pain tore at me. I was one of the last furs to be branded, there were only two or three others after me, but I couldn't tell. I sat more than knelt on the anvil, my knees barely touching the wood. The terror as the red hot iron closed on my face was the worst I ever experienced. For a moment it seemed as if it was pointed not at my cheek but directly at my eye. Then red hot pain exploded from my cheek. It was a good thing the paralysis also affected my bladder and bowels, otherwise I would surely have made a huge mess. I barely noticed when I was lifted off the anvil and returned to my place, where a heavy paw had to hold me upright. With a shock I realized that the almost constant groans and whimpers of pain had come from my own throat, sore and throbbing with pain from overuse. By the time I finally took notice of my surroundings once more the last fur was kneeling on the anvil. I couldn't even tell if it was a male or female, my eyes were so full of tears I could barely make out basic shapes. We were allowed to rest a little more before they commanded us to get up. I obeyed numbly, all will to resist burned away by the memory of the incredible pain.