A Bride Beyond The Gate

 
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By Jason Fischer © 2008

Jason FischerJason Fischer is based in Adelaide, South Australia. He is a graduate of the 2007 Clarion South workshop, and a recent semi-finalist in the Writers of the Future contest. His fiction has appeared in various e-zines and he has a story appearing in Jack Dann's new anthology Dreaming Again. He enjoys stories with a local flavour, particularly anything with zombies or a post-apocalyptic setting, and can be found lurking in internetland on <jasoni.livejournal.com>.

This author resides in the Antipodes


 

"Her. That one," said our lord. We knew who he meant. We'd done this lots of times.

Dozens of them screamed and threw themselves against the bars, reaching out for the King. It was like this every full Moon — every village tart and ha'penny hooker beating on the Brides' Gate in a wedding frock.

We opened the gates a crack, pushing back the surge of girls with the butts of our spears. I knew men who'd cheerfully break noses at the Gate, but I was not one for beating on a woman, even one so foolish as to be here.

She was almost a child, rather plain but at least not a painted whore like most of them. I gestured at her to come forward.

"Me?" she said, drowned out by the shrieking brides around her. I reached for her, and when it was clear she was chosen the other girls went wild, scratching and clawing at the lucky one. We waded in to rescue her from the mob.

"Back! Back!" I yelled, and we forced the gates closed. There was a wail of disappointment and a hail of abuse. The girl shook.

"Come here," the King said, but the girl didn't move. He frowned.

"I said come here."

We frogmarched her forward. Many of them grew scared at this point. We reckoned it sunk in then, what was expected of them. Many of them screamed, begged, made a mess of themselves on the cobblestones. Made no difference.

"Look at me," he said to her. She lifted her eyes. Big, brown, sad and watery. Her lips trembled, and I felt sick.

"I seek a true Queen."

She nodded, pale as a ghost. He produced the crown, a hideous contraption that rose to a great steel spike. The chin strap dangled from it, the buckle jingling. The mob were silent.

"If you want this badly enough, it will be yours. Kneel."

Her knees gave way, and we didn't have to force her to the ground like many others. We held her down as the King strapped the crown to her head. The young girl held her head still while he tightened the cinch. Hard.

"True love is forever," he said, gripping the crown by the spike. He yanked her head forward, stretched her neck out.

His axe fell.

There were no cries as she hit the stones, no noise in the courtyard. Dozens of jilted brides clung to the bars, watching the girl's body closely. The King stepped back from the spreading pool of blood, holding her severed head high. Her headless body twitched once, and everyone gasped. Nothing more. This was just the death spasms of another foolish girl.

"No Queen here today," I called out to the brides. "Return at the next full Moon if you think you are she."

The King carried the girl's head back to his palace, trailing blood across the courtyard. He would add to the mountain of skulls, and retire alone to his cold bed.

A noise, and I froze. Somebody swore.

The headless girl pushed against the cobblestones with shaking arms, got onto her knees. Slowly, she rose to her feet, blood gushing down her white dress. The brides screamed. She took one step towards her husband, then another.

 

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