his fingers. “Umm, that’s not the way it works. We definitely don’t want them to win. We are better off in Marta’s hands.”
“They have been known to torture and kill any slaves they manage to free,” Grigor said. “It’s their way of sharing the blessing with the former slaves. That way they can all receive glory and enlightenment in death as a martyr.”
“Oh,” Charley said, chagrined.
“Uh, I think he’s looking at us …” Hank said.
“Who?” Charley asked.
“The prophet or whoever. The old man.”
Charley looked for the elderly man, now hardly visible in the mass of jumping, bouncing, hip-swaying cult members that blocked their path. Then he saw a club clasped by a scrawny arm raise slowly in the air, and then the eerie screeching started again in earnest. For just a moment, Charley had the sensation that he was watching a pack of animals, not humans. Something about the way they bumped up and down, clutching clubs and clearly hungry for violence, made Charley think about the chimpanzelles they had seen earlier.
The man did seem to be looking at them. He raised his other arm and made a gesture to the Circumcellions for silence. He continued to look in their direction, the screeching and dancing now notably absent.
“What’s he doing?” Hank asked, fear rising in his voice.
“I believe he intends to rescue us,” Orson said.
The man thrust both hands straight up in the air as if summoning a lightning strike. Which, Charley thought, maybe he was. He bellowed out, “You slave traders will be in those chains and wearing that harness —” he pointed toward the captives—“before nightfall!” His eyes blazed with a strange light. “ Agonistici , charge!”
Marta’s men were hardened fighters with deadly sharp blades that flashed death and dismemberment indiscriminately in the gloaming light. Marta herself was a fair swordswoman, and what she lacked in quickness, she made up for in clever maneuvering. They chopped and hacked their way into the midst of the Circumcellions with careful precision, bodies falling in their wake. The dusky light glory-striped each fallen martyr, for a moment captured, time immemorial, in a medieval-esque panorama of violence and veneration.
But, for all of that, the battle seemed to shift before Charley’s eyes.
Marta’s men were discovering the difficulties of fighting an opponent with senses dulled by pharmaceutical means and determined to die in spectacular fashion. One young man purposefully let himself be impaled by a sword, only to die shrieking, not in pain, but in glorious ecstasy. Charley’s eyes grew wide as the man, in his dying throes, pushed himself further onto the sword , allowing his fellow martyrs-to-be beat the man down with their clubs.
Marta and her men were being pushed back.
Quite suddenly, Charley, Hank, Grigor, and Orson found themselves in the thick of it. Even in chains, Grigor was a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who came near, Circumcellion or slaver, was dispatched of with brutal efficiency. The four of them moved like a slow-rolling tank, trampling all who made the mistake of getting too close. One gaunt Circumcellion, eyes bloodshot and pupils dilated, managed to find himself inside of their harness and was summarily pummeled from four directions at once.
Charley looked frantically for Sandy, but she was lost from view. In the bloodlust of battle, he saw Hank regaining some of his customary confidence. Taking courage from Hank’s newfound resolve, Charley steeled himself to fight on; it was the only choice he had if he wanted to ever have a chance of seeing Sandy again. “Let’s get that one!” Hank called out, pointing to a large man swinging a club in their direction.
Grigor dipped a shoulder, bucked up his head viciously, and entangled the man’s club in his chains. With a knee to his gut, and a double-hammer thump on the back of his neck, the man was down for the count.
Hobbling slowly by him in their
“They have been known to torture and kill any slaves they manage to free,” Grigor said. “It’s their way of sharing the blessing with the former slaves. That way they can all receive glory and enlightenment in death as a martyr.”
“Oh,” Charley said, chagrined.
“Uh, I think he’s looking at us …” Hank said.
“Who?” Charley asked.
“The prophet or whoever. The old man.”
Charley looked for the elderly man, now hardly visible in the mass of jumping, bouncing, hip-swaying cult members that blocked their path. Then he saw a club clasped by a scrawny arm raise slowly in the air, and then the eerie screeching started again in earnest. For just a moment, Charley had the sensation that he was watching a pack of animals, not humans. Something about the way they bumped up and down, clutching clubs and clearly hungry for violence, made Charley think about the chimpanzelles they had seen earlier.
The man did seem to be looking at them. He raised his other arm and made a gesture to the Circumcellions for silence. He continued to look in their direction, the screeching and dancing now notably absent.
“What’s he doing?” Hank asked, fear rising in his voice.
“I believe he intends to rescue us,” Orson said.
The man thrust both hands straight up in the air as if summoning a lightning strike. Which, Charley thought, maybe he was. He bellowed out, “You slave traders will be in those chains and wearing that harness —” he pointed toward the captives—“before nightfall!” His eyes blazed with a strange light. “ Agonistici , charge!”
Marta’s men were hardened fighters with deadly sharp blades that flashed death and dismemberment indiscriminately in the gloaming light. Marta herself was a fair swordswoman, and what she lacked in quickness, she made up for in clever maneuvering. They chopped and hacked their way into the midst of the Circumcellions with careful precision, bodies falling in their wake. The dusky light glory-striped each fallen martyr, for a moment captured, time immemorial, in a medieval-esque panorama of violence and veneration.
But, for all of that, the battle seemed to shift before Charley’s eyes.
Marta’s men were discovering the difficulties of fighting an opponent with senses dulled by pharmaceutical means and determined to die in spectacular fashion. One young man purposefully let himself be impaled by a sword, only to die shrieking, not in pain, but in glorious ecstasy. Charley’s eyes grew wide as the man, in his dying throes, pushed himself further onto the sword , allowing his fellow martyrs-to-be beat the man down with their clubs.
Marta and her men were being pushed back.
Quite suddenly, Charley, Hank, Grigor, and Orson found themselves in the thick of it. Even in chains, Grigor was a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who came near, Circumcellion or slaver, was dispatched of with brutal efficiency. The four of them moved like a slow-rolling tank, trampling all who made the mistake of getting too close. One gaunt Circumcellion, eyes bloodshot and pupils dilated, managed to find himself inside of their harness and was summarily pummeled from four directions at once.
Charley looked frantically for Sandy, but she was lost from view. In the bloodlust of battle, he saw Hank regaining some of his customary confidence. Taking courage from Hank’s newfound resolve, Charley steeled himself to fight on; it was the only choice he had if he wanted to ever have a chance of seeing Sandy again. “Let’s get that one!” Hank called out, pointing to a large man swinging a club in their direction.
Grigor dipped a shoulder, bucked up his head viciously, and entangled the man’s club in his chains. With a knee to his gut, and a double-hammer thump on the back of his neck, the man was down for the count.
Hobbling slowly by him in their
Similar Books
