the boy kissing the girl gently, one of his men handed Soth
Garo a long wooden stake. He plunged it through both of their hearts with one
thrust, pinning them together in death. The surrounding hunters erupted in a
frenzy of cries and shouts, leaping into the air. The two lieutenants dragged
the bodies to the edge of the platform and rolled them off the far end, into
the fire.
Aiyan
was the only one to make a sound. “Elistar’s holy breath,” he whispered.
Soth
Garo held up his hands to quiet the crowd. “It is done,” he announced. “And
tonight when we feast, this union will be consummated by all. Now the
remaining Silasese will join us by blood.”
Kyric
felt sick, and not from the red pepper. “Is he saying what I think?”
No
one answered him.
Soth
Garo jumped down, the Baskillians forming a guard around him, and they pushed
through the crowd toward a point where two cliff faces came together at a sharp
angle on the south side of the clearing. Some of the hunters broke away from
the crowd, but most of them stayed. Slowly, they began to move, circling the
fire pit in one solid mass, the men at the outer edge having to trot to keep
up.
“What
are they doing?” Aiyan asked Mahai.
“I’ve
never seen this before. But after you stay up all night dancing you get a
little dazed. You can find yourself doing strange things.”
Aiyan
shook his head. “If we had an army with us we could take them right now.”
Soth
Garo and his skull-crowned guards climbed to the top of the cliff on steps cut
from the stone. Several hundred Hariji gathered to watch them from below.
The
far edge of the clearing seemed to drop away, and beyond it they could see only
the ocean and a few treetops. Kyric figured that the clearing was on a low
tableland above the town, and that the way down to it could be difficult, but
then a column of men came over the edge. A company of Hariji hunters led a
line of about fifty men right to the steps at the foot of the cliff. The
captives didn’t have headpieces, but Kyric could tell they were Silasese.
One
of the Baskillian lieutenants pushed the first man up the steps at sword’s point,
forcing him kneel before his master at the apex of the cliffs where all could
see. Soth Garo jabbed his own wrist with a dagger and offered it to the man.
He lowered his head and licked at the wound.
Mahai
let out a breath. “I do not believe it.”
Another
man was brought, a young warrior by the looks of him. Pushed to his knees, he
raised his head and refused to take the blood. Soth Garo looked to his
lieutenant. He held two fingers above the man’s head.
Soth
Garo nodded, and the lieutenant drew back his sabre, beheading the man with one
clean stroke. He kicked the body over the edge to the hunters waiting below.
Kyric didn’t want to know what they were going to do with it.
He
looked at Lerica. Her expression had gone from surprise and outrage to the mask
she had worn in the slave camp — an angry resignation, quietly furious that
they were surrounded by imminent death, and nothing could be done about it. He
should thank Colonel Thurlun, he supposed, for his week in the slave camp. He
couldn’t say it had inured him to this — nothing could do that — but that
experience had given him a kind of insulation against the shock, a way of
putting it aside for later.
Another
was brought, and he took the blood. And another.
Then
one came who knelt before Soth Garo and hesitated, looking at the bloody head
that lay there. He would not drink. The lieutenant held one finger over his
head, and Soth Garo waved him away. He was taken back down the steps and out
of sight.
The
next one took the blood. And the next. And the next.
“Why
do so few refuse him?” Mahai said. “I would rather die than become his slave.”
“The
only ones who refuse are the young warriors — no wife, no children,” Aiyan
said. Then he seemed to have a
Garo a long wooden stake. He plunged it through both of their hearts with one
thrust, pinning them together in death. The surrounding hunters erupted in a
frenzy of cries and shouts, leaping into the air. The two lieutenants dragged
the bodies to the edge of the platform and rolled them off the far end, into
the fire.
Aiyan
was the only one to make a sound. “Elistar’s holy breath,” he whispered.
Soth
Garo held up his hands to quiet the crowd. “It is done,” he announced. “And
tonight when we feast, this union will be consummated by all. Now the
remaining Silasese will join us by blood.”
Kyric
felt sick, and not from the red pepper. “Is he saying what I think?”
No
one answered him.
Soth
Garo jumped down, the Baskillians forming a guard around him, and they pushed
through the crowd toward a point where two cliff faces came together at a sharp
angle on the south side of the clearing. Some of the hunters broke away from
the crowd, but most of them stayed. Slowly, they began to move, circling the
fire pit in one solid mass, the men at the outer edge having to trot to keep
up.
“What
are they doing?” Aiyan asked Mahai.
“I’ve
never seen this before. But after you stay up all night dancing you get a
little dazed. You can find yourself doing strange things.”
Aiyan
shook his head. “If we had an army with us we could take them right now.”
Soth
Garo and his skull-crowned guards climbed to the top of the cliff on steps cut
from the stone. Several hundred Hariji gathered to watch them from below.
The
far edge of the clearing seemed to drop away, and beyond it they could see only
the ocean and a few treetops. Kyric figured that the clearing was on a low
tableland above the town, and that the way down to it could be difficult, but
then a column of men came over the edge. A company of Hariji hunters led a
line of about fifty men right to the steps at the foot of the cliff. The
captives didn’t have headpieces, but Kyric could tell they were Silasese.
One
of the Baskillian lieutenants pushed the first man up the steps at sword’s point,
forcing him kneel before his master at the apex of the cliffs where all could
see. Soth Garo jabbed his own wrist with a dagger and offered it to the man.
He lowered his head and licked at the wound.
Mahai
let out a breath. “I do not believe it.”
Another
man was brought, a young warrior by the looks of him. Pushed to his knees, he
raised his head and refused to take the blood. Soth Garo looked to his
lieutenant. He held two fingers above the man’s head.
Soth
Garo nodded, and the lieutenant drew back his sabre, beheading the man with one
clean stroke. He kicked the body over the edge to the hunters waiting below.
Kyric didn’t want to know what they were going to do with it.
He
looked at Lerica. Her expression had gone from surprise and outrage to the mask
she had worn in the slave camp — an angry resignation, quietly furious that
they were surrounded by imminent death, and nothing could be done about it. He
should thank Colonel Thurlun, he supposed, for his week in the slave camp. He
couldn’t say it had inured him to this — nothing could do that — but that
experience had given him a kind of insulation against the shock, a way of
putting it aside for later.
Another
was brought, and he took the blood. And another.
Then
one came who knelt before Soth Garo and hesitated, looking at the bloody head
that lay there. He would not drink. The lieutenant held one finger over his
head, and Soth Garo waved him away. He was taken back down the steps and out
of sight.
The
next one took the blood. And the next. And the next.
“Why
do so few refuse him?” Mahai said. “I would rather die than become his slave.”
“The
only ones who refuse are the young warriors — no wife, no children,” Aiyan
said. Then he seemed to have a
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