He approved; after all, she was a priestess.
Salleen raised both arms for silence and the crowd quietened. She stood and crossed her arms, her hands disappearing within the folds of her black robes. ‘Messinath of Purge,’ she began, ‘you have been found guilty of manifold crimes. Of encouraging apostasy. Of heresy. Of spreading religious lies and denying the truth of D’rek’s message.’ Salleen paused here and the crowd took their cue, booing and hurling refuse. This call and response struck Tayschrenn as amusing. The routine and predictability of all this public theatre was of course necessary – people had to know what their roles in society were, what was expected of them, and how to behave.
Salleen raised a hand once more for silence. ‘Therefore you have been condemned to death. You are allowed last words – I advise you to use them to beg for D’rek’s clemency.’
The young priestess of the Enchantress raised her chin further, talking a deep breath. ‘Priests and priestesses of D’rek,’ she began loudly, startling Tayschrenn, ‘I am come to bring you warning. Change your ways or you shall suffer the consequences of your recklessness.’
Across the pits, Salleen met Tayschrenn’s eye and he raised a brow in commentary. Astonishing.
‘Otherwise,’ the woman continued, her voice ringing throughout the amphitheatre, ‘there shall be a time of reckoning. And you shall know D’rek’s displeasure and punishment yourselves.’
Salleen surged to her feet, thrusting a finger. ‘Further pitiable lies!’ She shook her head in regret. ‘We generously offer you a chance to pray to D’rek, and instead you spout further profanation.’ She threw her arm down. ‘Let the punishment begin!’
Down at the pit level, behind the inner stone wall, a line of drummers took their cue and began hammering the fat kettle drums set on the bare ground before them. The muscular musicians were naked from the waist up, and a fine black filigree of tattooed scorpions, beetles, and centipedes covered their backs and arms. The insects seem to writhe as the drumming intensified.
Everyone waited, even the condemned priestess of the Queen of Dreams. She stood panting, glancing left and right as if searching for some executioner; this told Tayschrenn that she was indeed a stranger to the island. That she hadn’t fainted or started begging for mercy showed the strength of her inner convictions and character.
A shame, really, that someone so strong should be so wrongheaded. But then, whom else would the cult have chosen for such a dangerous mission as proselytizing on the island of Kartool?
A ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd as a hissing noise reached the benches. It emanated from the holes in the pit floor; the condemned had noticed it as well, as she was now backing away from the nearest of these openings.
The hissing became a loud seething. The drummers now hammered with all their might. Up from the many holes came a boiling tide of writhing insects.
The priestess’s mouth opened in a scream of utter horror that was inaudible beneath the coursing of millions of grating carapaces. A living flood that was now engulfing the pit.
Again, to her credit, she did not try to run, for there was nowhere to flee. She found the tallest of the cracked rocks and stepped up upon it; a promontory of perhaps no more than shin height. There she stood, weaving slightly, a pale island surrounded by a rising sea of ten million hungry mouths.
The carpet of vermin now covered the entire floor of the pit. Waves seemed to course through it as if it were searching, frustrated. Searching for something it knew to be present. Still it rose, deepening. Outliers of beetles and centipedes scuttled up the stone wall. Children armed with sticks ran back and forth, laughing, to flick them back into the mass beneath. Some they captured in tiny wicker baskets to keep as pets.
Eventually, some grubs or maggots climbed the rock the condemned had retreated to and found her naked feet. The entire chitinous sea seemed to flinch. It pulled away from the edges of the pit, gathering towards the middle. The woman screamed again, soundlessly, as the rising flood washed over her feet. It covered her legs, climbing in a thick layer up beneath her skirts. She buckled in agony, mouthing something more, and toppled, to disappear beneath the foaming blanket.
The shapeless hump writhed for a time, struggling, then fell still. After a few moments it began to move – perhaps being dragged, or rolled – towards the nearest opening. While the crowd watched, silent and awed, the seething bulge slid over the edge and disappeared as if down a throat.
The flood of insects followed down the many pit openings like a draining ocean of foam, leaving the bare rock floor picked clean of every scrap of litter and thrown refuse. Of the condemned, there remained not one sign.
The crowd began to rise, heading for the exits. The oldsters in the priests’ section hobbled to their feet. Some walked with the aid of twisted and polished wooden canes. A few helped others with hands under their arms. Koarsden stretched, shading his eyes to study the sun in the sky. ‘That took longer than I thought it would.’ He turned to Tayschrenn. ‘Well … what do you say we find some lunch?’
*
Dancer did not think much of this so-called capital city of Malaz. Judging from its grim and derelict character the island itself must be dirt-poor indeed. Low, ancient stone buildings squatted like tombs in the cold rain, roofed in slate, grey shakes, or ceramic tiles. Most were too far apart to allow rooftop runs, except for the very city centre.
He and Wu stood pressed against one of these cold and damp stone walls under the cover of a roof’s ledge while rain pattered down a night-time alley. To warm himself he crossed his arms beneath his cloak and gripped the baldrics over his chest.
‘Damned cold rain,’ he grumbled beneath his breath to Wu.
‘It’s the Storm Straits,’ Wu answered, just as low. ‘A very cold sea. Subaqueous abode, they say, of the daemon Stormriders.’
Dancer snorted at that. ‘Children’s stories.’
‘Not so. We of southern Dal Hon know of them.’ The mage straightened. ‘Here they come.’
Dancer pulled a scarf up over his nose and mouth, shifted his grip to the cold damp iron of his throwing knives.
Two figures came tramping out of the gloom of the alleyway, side by side, hands hidden beneath their oiled sealskin cloaks. Holding loaded crossbows, point down, Dancer judged. Behind came a small woman in a similar cloak, and behind her two more guards.
Dancer stepped out to block the way, throwing blades drawn. The leading pair jerked to a halt, quite startled by his sudden appearance. Their cloaks bulged outwards as the crossbows rose.
Dancer pointed one dagger past them to the woman, who had also halted. ‘Drop your shipment.’ Droplets of rain, he noted, fell from the tip of his extended blade.