It gave her a direction of travel. Here she had what was potentially a source of riches and power, if she could use it where they could not reach her. Her background had taught her more about the Morkth than most humans cared to know. She knew, for instance that there were two factions of Morkth, and that their internecine fight was more bitter than their hatred of humanity. She also knew they struggled with high altitudes and low temperatures. Their attacks were almost always limited to the coastal cities and the fertile lowland plains. Therefore she would go to the mountains. She could see the purple line of them from here.
* * *
S'kith too had thought he would aim for the mountains. He had needed a goal, a geographical target of some kind. Now these lower life forms were hounding him in such a fashion that he began to doubt if he would ever reach the blue jaggedness he could see before him.
CHAPTER 5
Slave markets have a peculiar scent. The pheromones of human fear and desolation are concentrated there. The noses of those engaged in the trade become blunted to it, just as butchers become used to the sight of blood: besides it was not a profession for the overly squeamish. It was the lifeblood of the city of Castern, and in some way or another it impacted on all its citizens' lives. Which was why the townspeople were building the gibbet right in the middle of the market square. This man would hang where all the slaves could see him. There'd be no trap door's sudden drop for this one. No. He was going to dangle and jangle a bit. His throttling dance would be something the merchandise would remember. The fine upstanding citizens of Castern wanted to make a real example of him. He was worse than a slave who had killed his owner. He was a slave who'd killed a slave merchant, as well as committed another murder and a bit of cannibalism and rape. It was the latter crimes that had had him hunted by the countryfolk, but in this city it was the former the citizens had found so heinous. It was the sort of idea one rooted out at all costs.
They'd marched him down, past the lines of cages, to look at the scaffold they were building for him. He had stared long at it, his face expressionless, but then, it always was. Even now, he neither flinched nor wept, nor seemed defiant. As a warning to other watching slaves the exercise was worse than a failure. His captors did not understand that the gallows had no meaning for him. He'd never seen one before, and had no idea of its fell purpose. The mere wooden structure might make his escort shudder, but had no effect on him.
He'd run half the countryside ragged . . . and then been captured by a slip of a farmgirl, armed with no more than a cattle goad. S'kith 235 had stood when she'd told him to stand, had dropped his knife at her word, had allowed her to bind him and lead him like a lamb to the hunting soldiers, and scythe-and-pitchfork-armed countrymen. Now he stood in chains in an iron cage in the middle of the market. Occasionally passers-by would pelt him with rotten fruit or bits of dung. Yet he remained impassive. No signs of emotion moved across his wooden countenance, no matter what they did. They thought him tough beyond belief. They did not realize he was merely emotionally newborn.
S'kith 235 watched the three moving steadily from stall to stall. They were unusual enough to attract the attention of someone with a less intense curiosity than his . . . and he had nothing else to distract him. Most of the buyers who came to the market fitted into more-or-less defined categories. Masters and overseers looking for new laborers, wanting men with strength rather than intellect; haughty matrons in search of domestic staff, generally looking for ugly or disfigured young girls; furtive affluent folk, the young ones still conscience-pricked, the older ones with a terrifying jaded-hungry look, in their quest for sexual entertainments. Different sections of the market were dedicated to the different types of merchandise. Seldom did any buyer wander through more than one sector. Except these three. They'd started at one end and had been steadily going through it all.
They were an ill-assorted trio. One of them was short and broad, the other slim and obviously feminine, even to the Morkth-man's untrained eye, and the third exceptionally tall and, by the look of the sun reflecting off his head, bald. From S'kith's point of view this was something in the fellow's favor. He found the head and facial hair so overtly displayed by these mongrel humans repulsive.
They came closer, going through stall after stall. S'kith continued to watch them. The short one was truly amazingly broad, nearly as wide as he was high. The backs of his hands and his bare legs were covered in a thick down of reddish brown hair. As this extended into a bushy beard and curly hair mop, it was only the loose, faded-green canvas jerkin and lederhosen that he wore that stopped folk thinking he was a small pet bear. That, and the pale weimaraner-yellow eyes that stared out from under those bushy brows, intelligent and cold. Across his back was strapped a great, two-handed, jagged landsknecht's sword.