Sword Blade Crown

Author: None
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: The sound of hooves broke the silence of dusk. At the forefront of the procession was a soldier riding ared high-stepping horse, draped in a red cloak and wearing an iron helmet. "Make way, make way, in the name of Prince Holman!" the soldier shouted, charging through the crowd. Behind him was an iron-wheeled carriage, driven by two horses and a driver. Behind and on both sides of the carriage, twelve vigilant cavalrymen tightly encircled it. The people on the street cleared a path for the procession. They stared curiously at the carriage and the soldiers guarding it. The horses, drenched in sweat, and the soldiers, alert and watchful, evoked some associations, but what truly drew attention was the carriage they surrounded. The carriage's body was forged from two-finger-thick fine iron, and the "guests" inside were clearly visible. The prisoner's wrists were bound behind his back with sturdy ropes, and heavy iron chains were locked around his feet. Two guards standing behind the cage, holding long, sharp swords, stared coldly at every sway of the prisoner inside. Their swords clashed against the iron bars of the cage with every bump of the carriage, ready to pierce the criminal's heart—if they deemed it necessary. Such strict vigilance was rare in the city. After the carriage passed, the crowd immediately began to whisper. Prince Holman rarely allowed important prisoners to be displayed publicly. Due to the deep-rooted prejudice of southerners, the prince would quietly and unobtrusively dispose of serious offenders, leaving only a meaningless name in the judgment records. The carriage sped through the bustling streets toward its destination. The driver mercilessly drained the last bit of energy from the two horses. The poor animals, driven by the whip, exerted their full strength, and the wheels violently jumped over every bump and depression. More than once, the two guards inside the carriage collided with each other. The carriage entered the Royal Square, where a welcoming procession was already waiting. At the front of the line stood a woman dressed in black mourning clothes. Her wide hat, adorned with a veil, concealed her face, but her pale, soft neck, slender figure, and posture revealed that she was still young. Around her were four or five tall, strong men, dressed similarly. "Let the baroness identify." The two guards opened the cage door. They first removed their weapons and handed them to their companions before carefully pulling the prisoner out. Their caution was unnecessary this time, as the prisoner was escorted out without resistance. But everyone knew what the last time was like. The man's appearance immediately drew a low murmur of astonishment from the crowd. The prisoner was of medium height, like all the other captives, and his upper body was bare. Including his face, many parts of his body were stained with dried, dark blood, along with bruises and other injuries, making his body almost unrecognizable. The prisoner had distinct features, and from his current face alone, it was difficult to determine his exact age. He could be interpreted as middle-aged or still young. The struggles, tortures, and life in the cage had left his face a mess, but his eyes still held a fierce intensity. Those eyes reminded one of a fierce animal trapped in a trap—definitely not the eyes of someone resigned to fate. Although his face was covered in wounds and bruises, his eyes gave his face an intimidating presence. The guards watching the prisoner were each taller than him, yet none dared to doubt his threat. Two guards grabbed one of his hands—one already bound behind his back with sturdy ropes. But no measure was unnecessary. The prisoner had made multiple attempts to regain his freedom. The result of these efforts was four corpses in the graves and twelve injured men in bed—the lighter injuries would require two weeks of recovery. The man was gaunt, moving with a calm and graceful demeanor. Under the "care" of the two soldiers, he stepped out of the cage and approached the woman veiled in black. Suddenly, he stamped his foot hard, and all the guards instinctively drew their weapons. A clatter of steel filled the air. The prisoner watched the tense guards with interest. His gaze made the guards even more flustered. They faced a prisoner with his hands bound behind his back, shackled at the feet, and surrounded by four arms. Yet it was such a prisoner's footstep that caused the entire procession to react violently. "Scoundrel!" a voice cursed softly. The woman approached the prisoner. One of the guards holding the prisoner lifted his hair to reveal his face more clearly. The woman stared at the motionless face for a dozen seconds before suddenly screaming and backing away repeatedly. Two men rushed forward to support her. "It's him! That demon!" the woman cried, wiping her face with a clean square cloth beneath her veil. "It was him who killed the baron. That night, he killed my husband right in front of me. It was him who stabbed my husband in the neck." The two men supporting the baroness quietly comforted the grieving widow while leading her to the back of the line. Several men in large robes, standing to one side of the procession, began to talk to each other. They did not hide their conversation, so the prisoner could hear some of it. "The evidence is undeniable; there's no need for a public trial," their tone was as casual as discussing what to have for lunch, but the prisoner knew they were discussing his fate. This discussion did not last long, as they quickly reached a consensus. One of them, a stout man in his forties, walked toward the prisoner and announced his fate in a tone of pity. P1-3