"Hey you! Get away from there." The bulky sergeant came belting out from between the tents, hand on his sword. Slowly the threesome turned, looking at him, the girl calmly fastening the waist sash, and the short man-mountain reaching over his shoulder. The tall man spoke in an arctic voice. "Are you addressing me, sirrah?"
Arriving behind their leader at a trot, and fanning out in a half-circle around the three, came some twenty-five of the city watch, their pikes at the ready.
Many men would have wilted before the eagle-eyed man's question, but this sergeant stayed calm. He did, however, wait to reply until he was sure all his men were ready. Then he stepped forward, deliberately pushing into the personal space of the tall man. "Yuss! I was. And you'll listen to me unless you want to swing next to your little caged friend."
"Relax, Sergeant. The slave is no friend of mine. Why is he in a cage? I should like to purchase him." The tall man spoke calmly, although something about his voice suggested that he also spoke with great restraint.
"Huh! Likely bloody story," said the sergeant, scornful. "You don't know why the murdering cannibal's in the cage? You want to buy him? Don't give me your crap, mister. The whole bloody country knows what he's done. I suppose you'd like me to think you don't? That you just dropped in from 'eaven, complete with your bloody Cru badge!"
There was an abrupt hissing sound. It happened so fast that even S'kith's warrior reflexes found it difficult to see, and the ordinary city watchmen certainly had no chance to react. The huge jagged blade rested against the sergeant's neck. "Give the word, Cap."
The tall man raised his eyebrows, tilted his head slightly. For a long silent minute he stared at the sergeant, taking in the sheen of sweat leaping out on the fellow's forehead. Then he shook his head. "No, Beywulf. The sergeant didn't mean to insult me . . . did you Sergeant?"
"No, no . . . but I'm warning you, hurt me and there'll be trouble. Just get on your way, and we'll say no more of it, my word on it," said the sergeant, his bravado growing with each second of potential reprieve.
"Very well. Remove your sword, Beywulf. The sergeant will tell his men to put up their pikes."
The sergeant was relieved to have the weight of the long blade lifted from his neck. But there was a warm wetness seeping down onto his collar. The sword had been sharp enough to cut just by touching. The sergeant staggered away, back to his men. He moved a healthy distance behind them. But he was a petty-minded soul. He'd given his promise, yes, but he would still let them feel the weight of his authority. "Nar then, come along you three. I said you could be on your way, an' I keep word, but that way is now outside the city gates before this murderer hangs. And just to make sure you unnerstand that, we're going to see you along it."
In a fringe of pikes they were marched away. S'kith watched them go, curiosity bubbling in his head. What did "hang" mean?
Sunset came. The scaffold was finished. The traders' stalls and tents were packed up, but the merchandise stood assembled, watching and waiting. Several bonfires were kindled about the square and vendors, selling everything from sweetmeats to abortifacient powders, plied a brisk trade among the growing crowd. A drum began to beat out a slow tattoo. The pickpockets waited, selecting their marks. A brief scuffle, quickly quelled, broke out outside the ale draper's noisome place. Then, at last, five men, one of whom wore a black hood, came to the cage. They led S'kith out and up onto the platform. As he climbed the stairs silence fell like a curtain across the crowd. Only the slow drumbeat continued.
It was only when they led him to the front of the platform, and the hooded man put the thick noose around his neck that S'kith 235 truly understood what they meant by "hang." What a stupid way of sending flesh to the rendering! The struggling would almost certainly spoil the quality, and make it tough. The hooded man adjusted and tightened the noose. S'kith began his bioenhancement exercises. He would resist as long as possible, and at least he would not feel the end.
Then, just as the executioner was about to push S'kith to the edge, an intense ruby beam cut through the darkness and sheared the rope. Except for the pickpockets, who hadn't been watching, the crowd were dazzled. Too dazzled to see the arrows that the marksman on the roof had put into the bonfires. Moments later the fires exploded, scattering burning logs and embers into the crowd.
S'kith had seen the discharges of energy weapons before, although they had been incandescent purple, not a blaze of red. He had known what they were, but he'd thought they were meant for him rather than the rope. That anyone might come to his rescue never occurred to him. Thus it was not surprising that he fought like a kif-crazed dervish against the vast arms that encircled him. Then a skilled hand squeezed his carotid artery, and he knew no more.