looked at the lieutenant.
Blood stained his uniform, and a thin slash along his cheek seeped red droplets down his unshaven face like slow rain. Roderic
stared, fascinated.
Time seemed to slow, drag, and he turned to look at Brand with a puzzled look on his face. But Brand was staring in the other
direction, and Roderic panicked. He felt a desperate urge to regain his self-control. And then, as though something deep within
had been released, some savage instinct he had only felt in battle or at the hunt, uncoiled itself, and his blood began to
burn.
“Bring them here,” he said through clenched teeth and thickened tongue. A kind of slow fire seeped through his veins, one
that sparked and flared at the prospect of the prisoners, bound and at his bidding. “And gather the men.” His voice sounded
the same, but the words were heavy with threat.
He looked up to see Brand frowning. “What are you planning, Roderic?”
He avoided Brand’s gaze, and as he looked away, he saw Amanander watching from the side of the tent. His dark eyes were hooded,
but his mouth was curved in a thin smile, and in the weird light of the ruddy sun, his lips were coppery red. His hand curved
over and around the hilt of his dagger, caressing it like a woman’s flesh.
Roderic felt the sudden urge to smile back. “Maybe Reginald’s right,” he said to Brand. “Maybe these animals do understand
only one thing. I’d like to find out.” He gave Brand a smile that matched Amanander’s. “Bring out the prisoner,” he barked
to the guards in the tent.
When the troops had crowded around the smaller circle of captives, Roderic stood with Ebram-taw in the center, who still stood
straight and unbowed. “Well, Ebram-taw, I asked you before, I ask you again. Shall we have peace? Or shall your kind be wiped
out?”
The Muten did not answer. Roderic caught a glimpse of the wary frown on Brand’s face, but before it could register, that sight
was replaced by Amanander’s enigmatic smile. He signaled to two of the soldiers. One of the Muten captives was dragged out
into the center. “Peace?” Roderic asked once more.
Again, the Muten did not speak. Without another word, Roderic signaled to the guards.
They raised their blades and began.
It seemed to him that they knew exactly what he wanted, although he couldn’t remember giving the order. But that had to be
impossible, he thought, in some rational recess of his mind that recoiled at the sight unfolding before him. He knew that
though Brand stood shocked and horrified, his brother did not dare countermand his orders. Besides the urgent bloodthirst,
there was a heady sense of his own power. It was like a ritual, a dance, a ceremony, for as each hacked and flayed and ruined
body was dragged away, Roderic turned to Ebram-taw and put the question to him once again. “Peace?”
And at each silence, Roderic gave again the signal, and another wretch was thrown in the red-brown mire which soon was ankle
deep. Finally, when only four remained alive, Ebram-taw, agony on his face and sweat pouring from his skin, shouted “Stop!”
Roderic shook his head. He felt dazed, drunk, as though the blood had satiated every appetite and left him sodden, stupid.
The silence thickened. It seemed to be a tangible thing, one that crept and swayed with a life all its own, and Roderic knew
that Amanander stood just beyond the inner circle. Something in him recoiled at the realization, and something else, some
sense that this reaction was the true one, the right one, threw off the heavy, sickening feeling like a shroud. It seemed
that the fog cleared then, though the mist was still as thick as ever, and the hot scent of the carnage before him was suffocating.
“Peace?” he asked slowly, wonderingly.
Ebram-taw, shoulders slumped, spoke in a hoarse and ragged voice. “Peace. I cannot kill my son.”
Chapter Five
O n a cold day at the beginning of March, Roderic
Blood stained his uniform, and a thin slash along his cheek seeped red droplets down his unshaven face like slow rain. Roderic
stared, fascinated.
Time seemed to slow, drag, and he turned to look at Brand with a puzzled look on his face. But Brand was staring in the other
direction, and Roderic panicked. He felt a desperate urge to regain his self-control. And then, as though something deep within
had been released, some savage instinct he had only felt in battle or at the hunt, uncoiled itself, and his blood began to
burn.
“Bring them here,” he said through clenched teeth and thickened tongue. A kind of slow fire seeped through his veins, one
that sparked and flared at the prospect of the prisoners, bound and at his bidding. “And gather the men.” His voice sounded
the same, but the words were heavy with threat.
He looked up to see Brand frowning. “What are you planning, Roderic?”
He avoided Brand’s gaze, and as he looked away, he saw Amanander watching from the side of the tent. His dark eyes were hooded,
but his mouth was curved in a thin smile, and in the weird light of the ruddy sun, his lips were coppery red. His hand curved
over and around the hilt of his dagger, caressing it like a woman’s flesh.
Roderic felt the sudden urge to smile back. “Maybe Reginald’s right,” he said to Brand. “Maybe these animals do understand
only one thing. I’d like to find out.” He gave Brand a smile that matched Amanander’s. “Bring out the prisoner,” he barked
to the guards in the tent.
When the troops had crowded around the smaller circle of captives, Roderic stood with Ebram-taw in the center, who still stood
straight and unbowed. “Well, Ebram-taw, I asked you before, I ask you again. Shall we have peace? Or shall your kind be wiped
out?”
The Muten did not answer. Roderic caught a glimpse of the wary frown on Brand’s face, but before it could register, that sight
was replaced by Amanander’s enigmatic smile. He signaled to two of the soldiers. One of the Muten captives was dragged out
into the center. “Peace?” Roderic asked once more.
Again, the Muten did not speak. Without another word, Roderic signaled to the guards.
They raised their blades and began.
It seemed to him that they knew exactly what he wanted, although he couldn’t remember giving the order. But that had to be
impossible, he thought, in some rational recess of his mind that recoiled at the sight unfolding before him. He knew that
though Brand stood shocked and horrified, his brother did not dare countermand his orders. Besides the urgent bloodthirst,
there was a heady sense of his own power. It was like a ritual, a dance, a ceremony, for as each hacked and flayed and ruined
body was dragged away, Roderic turned to Ebram-taw and put the question to him once again. “Peace?”
And at each silence, Roderic gave again the signal, and another wretch was thrown in the red-brown mire which soon was ankle
deep. Finally, when only four remained alive, Ebram-taw, agony on his face and sweat pouring from his skin, shouted “Stop!”
Roderic shook his head. He felt dazed, drunk, as though the blood had satiated every appetite and left him sodden, stupid.
The silence thickened. It seemed to be a tangible thing, one that crept and swayed with a life all its own, and Roderic knew
that Amanander stood just beyond the inner circle. Something in him recoiled at the realization, and something else, some
sense that this reaction was the true one, the right one, threw off the heavy, sickening feeling like a shroud. It seemed
that the fog cleared then, though the mist was still as thick as ever, and the hot scent of the carnage before him was suffocating.
“Peace?” he asked slowly, wonderingly.
Ebram-taw, shoulders slumped, spoke in a hoarse and ragged voice. “Peace. I cannot kill my son.”
Chapter Five
O n a cold day at the beginning of March, Roderic
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