The Plains of Abraham

Chapter 32

Those of us who weren't hurt in the fighting, or weren't hurt seriously, tended to the wounded. Arrowheads were buried in Malcolm's shoulder and calf. Eva had begun searching for him as soon as the battle ended; she found us at the makeshift outdoor hospital, a patch of grass in the central meeting area where wounded and dying men were laid out and being triaged. Less than a stone's throw away, where I'd enjoyed fine food, wine, and dancing at my own wedding, some of the residents of Bounty Rock hastily erected a platform and planted a stake in the ground behind it. For victory speeches? I wondered. Eulogies?

The reason for the stake became clear when the captured Garhog was wrestled onto the platform and tied to it. And appallingly clear when a pair of Ellanoyans built a fire a short distance in front of it.

Adrienne showed up and went to work nursing the wounded. I asked her how she was doing.

"Fine," she said. "Busy at the moment."

"I'm sorry about your father."

"Let's make sure we don't lose any more."

Malcolm stood up on wobbly legs, pointed at the platform, and demanded to know what the plan was.

"Lie back down," Adrienne said. "You'll only worsen the bleeding."

"Are they going to torture that creature?"

"You're an outsider. This is not your business."

"Of course it's my business," Malcolm said. "Garhogs are men. They must be treated like men."

"Sit down and be quiet."

Adrienne had never spoken to anyone that way in my presence. She saw me staring at her and said, "Tell me how you'd feel if they killed your father."

"I wouldn't feel differently than I do now."

The Garhog shouted from his elevated pulpit: "I am Stout, conqueror of Kormoran and Whispertal. How beautiful the sun is, on this, the day I will die."

Men wielding copper knives mounted the platform and sawed on the mutant's fingers. After a minute one of the men lifted a long bloody finger in the air and exclaimed, "Number one!" Some of the onlookers clapped their approval.

The Garhog showed no sign of pain. Instead he sang a high-pitched song consisting of chirps and howls as well as words. It was his death song.

Malcolm made a fist. "This must be stopped."

Jonah was nearby and overhead. He came over and said, "Must it?"

Another of the Ellanoyans on the platform called down, "Number two!" The swelling crowd broke out in applause. Malcolm tried to plough through the crowd, but Jonah and others restrained him.

"Keep up that behavior, keep trying to interfere," Jonah said, "and we'll strap you to your hospital bed."

"You'll do no such thing," I told him.

He bowed slightly and said, "Yes, my king."

My king? But of course. I had married Berthold's daughter that morning. And Berthold had died that afternoon.

"Number three!"

The Garhog interrupted his song long enough to ape his tormentors. "Number three!" he mocked. "Make it four!"

One of the cutters raised a curling appendage for all to see. "Four it is!"

Malcolm turned to me. "You have the authority to stop this."