The Deepcombers

Chapter Three

To Lon's horror, the Crol with the bushy grey mustache who delighted in torturing him now advanced through the ranks. He was paralyzed with fear as he watched the tyrant approach. The arrogant officer held the iron key in one hand and his red rope was wrapped around his left wrist. He was followed by two brutes with sour faces and cudgels in their fists.

Minister Horne clacked and pointed again at the shaggy bucktoothed lad. To quell any doubts he reissued his preference in Common; "that one is our sea drover." 

The cruel officer's mustache curled in grim delight as he recognized his favorite victim.

"No." Lon pulled and dragged Hastegus and Jarl as he scrambled backwards. But rather than strike him the attending Crol simply waved his hand to unleash his bullies.

Lon cast a glance at Hastegus and he saw his friend's face harden against him. There was no kindness in his eyes now. He would not speak up to save him. Lon looked at Jarl and then across at Tharus. Would the swampkin use his secret lockpick to lead a revolt? It was not too late...

"Die well Lonastasius." Hastegus spoke in such a bleak voice it flattened the lad and deflated everyone around him including the guards who'd seized his arms. The Crols raised him up and frogmarched him through the minuchin toward the ancient object at the front of the ship.

Halfway along, Lon struggled for his life. But the Crols only laughed and the mustached officer slapped his wound. The fresh attack crippled him and his arms and back were seized with pain.  The guards punched him again and he ceased his struggles and became easier to manage. They dragged him limp through the lines and he could see and feel just how much these other rowers despised him. Nobody here would mourn his death.

Why not just let it happen?  His fellow captives looked relieved, not sympathetic. He couldn't blame them. He'd caused so many of them to be ensnared. Perhaps this was Kluth's Justice? That's what terrified Lon the most. What if the Creator wouldn't embrace him because of his stupid mistake? But Amon must have heard my prayers? He lowered his head so the others couldn't see his tears.

Everyone watched Lon get hoisted into place inside the aperture. The minister's well-dressed valet called for more help to secure his wrists and ankles. The noble inspected all their hands before they touched anything. He attended to every detail and directed how the bonds must by tied with course twine. He clacked instructions, admonitions and encouragement at each Crol who helped and then he personally climbed to snug tight the leather strap over Lon's forehead. The two young people stood eye to eye for a moment and the rich valet winked without a smile. It was a strange emotionless gesture but it offered a glimmer of hope.

Minister Horne clacked and Clyde translated, "...it's time for you to die and shed your worthless form to serve us as a spirit."

"It's time to die. Shed your worthless form and serve us as a spirit." The words were repeated by all the captives and crew.  

Minister Horne signaled the blacksmith should approach and play his part in the ceremony. The burly metalworker blushed at the special attention and was proud of his role. He clutched a silver trident in his hand which he continued to sharpen with a whetstone as he walked. The aged sea captain trailed behind, followed by the ship's doctor who still held his empty glass specimen jar and ceramic cap.

Without any direction, the gray mustached officer took his own cue and stepped forward to rip away Lon's bloodstained tunic. He exposed his hirsute chest and snickered with derision as he looked around for an audience. The adjustment left Lon with only threadbare pants cut-ragged at the knees. He glared at his tormentor and momentarily felt his anger triumph over his fear, but then he surrendered again to the terror of his public execution.