armor was spattered with drops of fresh blood.
At a hand signal from the pirate captain, the Matachìn pushed Ryan forward, then kicked him behind the knees to make him kneel before their headman’s headman.
Fright Mask addressed the audience of pirates, priests, red sashes and prisoners in a booming voice, punctuated by punches thrown at the night sky. Ryan couldn’t understand a word of it, but it drew rounds of cheers from the red sashes.
He glanced back at Krysty and the others. They stood helpless, outnumbered, awaiting whatever fate this jabbering asshole had in mind.
Fright Mask shouted something down at him to get his attention.
Ryan squinted up at the hellish mask of flesh. “Speak English, fuckhead,” he snarled back.
The bossman called out impatiently to the rest of the gathered slaves. Ryan thought he caught the now-familiar word “Shi-ball-an-kay.”
Doc shouted something back in Spanish and was immediately dragged from line and forced to his knees beside Ryan.
“So here we are,” Doc said with resignation.
Fright Mask yelled something in Doc’s face. As he did so, saliva spilled from the corners of his vast, carved mouth, gooey, yo-yoing strands drooling onto his gilded battle armor.
“This strikingly handsome fellow wants to make certain you know that he’s a high muckety-muck,” Doc loosely translated.“Governor of the city-state of Veracruz. His name’s al Modo, Generalissimo al Modo.”
Fright Mask yelled some more, this time at considerable length.
“Apparently,” Doc continued during a pause in the tirade, “the governor-general, here, is of the firm opinion that your capture and that of someone he calls Hunahpu, represents the turning point in a war waged by the Lords of Death since the day of creation, itself.”
“How worried should I be?”
“Very worried,” Doc said. “As should the rest of us. The governor says you will be tried by a duly assembled religious tribunal tomorrow and then executed pursuant to holy writ before the following dawn. What your supposed crimes are, he did not elaborate.”
Ryan glowered at the priests he presumed would be sitting in final judgment on him. “Does it really matter?”
“Perhaps not,” Doc said. The time-traveler stared him in the eye, his haggard face full of anguish and sorrow. “You and I have come an awful long way to take our leaves in a place such as this,” he said, “with our hands and feet bound, and our weapons out of reach.”
“Doc, no matter how bad it looks, this isn’t over yet,” Ryan said. “Don’t give up. Don’t let the others give up, either.”
As Doc was dragged away, he called out to Ryan. “I pray we meet again, my dear friend, if not in the here and now, then somewhere beyond this fucking vale of tears.”
“Remember the islander boy,” Ryan called to him. “Remember Garwood Reed.”
Something slammed into his left temple so hard that it made him see stars. He looked up at Fright Mask, who showedhim a balled, metal-gauntleted fist. Ryan was grateful for the blow, which allowed him to focus his anger.
“Unchain me for a minute,” Ryan told his captor, “and I’ll widen that smile all the way to the back of your head.”
The governor-general didn’t understand the threat, and so ignored it. He gestured to the pirates, who pulled Ryan to his feet and hauled him off to one side.
Fright Mask had other, more pressing business to attend to. He snapped his gauntleted fingers twice in High Pile’s direction.
As the Matachìn commander took a small, dog-eared notebook from inside his armor, the priests started making rhythmic scraping sounds, steel on whetstones. They were touching up the edges on their ceremonial daggers.
High Pile walked over to the line of slaves. Pausing in front of the first man, who was naked to the waist, his back and shoulders blistered and peeling from the sun and the lash, the captain referred to a page in his little book and made a check mark with a tiny
At a hand signal from the pirate captain, the Matachìn pushed Ryan forward, then kicked him behind the knees to make him kneel before their headman’s headman.
Fright Mask addressed the audience of pirates, priests, red sashes and prisoners in a booming voice, punctuated by punches thrown at the night sky. Ryan couldn’t understand a word of it, but it drew rounds of cheers from the red sashes.
He glanced back at Krysty and the others. They stood helpless, outnumbered, awaiting whatever fate this jabbering asshole had in mind.
Fright Mask shouted something down at him to get his attention.
Ryan squinted up at the hellish mask of flesh. “Speak English, fuckhead,” he snarled back.
The bossman called out impatiently to the rest of the gathered slaves. Ryan thought he caught the now-familiar word “Shi-ball-an-kay.”
Doc shouted something back in Spanish and was immediately dragged from line and forced to his knees beside Ryan.
“So here we are,” Doc said with resignation.
Fright Mask yelled something in Doc’s face. As he did so, saliva spilled from the corners of his vast, carved mouth, gooey, yo-yoing strands drooling onto his gilded battle armor.
“This strikingly handsome fellow wants to make certain you know that he’s a high muckety-muck,” Doc loosely translated.“Governor of the city-state of Veracruz. His name’s al Modo, Generalissimo al Modo.”
Fright Mask yelled some more, this time at considerable length.
“Apparently,” Doc continued during a pause in the tirade, “the governor-general, here, is of the firm opinion that your capture and that of someone he calls Hunahpu, represents the turning point in a war waged by the Lords of Death since the day of creation, itself.”
“How worried should I be?”
“Very worried,” Doc said. “As should the rest of us. The governor says you will be tried by a duly assembled religious tribunal tomorrow and then executed pursuant to holy writ before the following dawn. What your supposed crimes are, he did not elaborate.”
Ryan glowered at the priests he presumed would be sitting in final judgment on him. “Does it really matter?”
“Perhaps not,” Doc said. The time-traveler stared him in the eye, his haggard face full of anguish and sorrow. “You and I have come an awful long way to take our leaves in a place such as this,” he said, “with our hands and feet bound, and our weapons out of reach.”
“Doc, no matter how bad it looks, this isn’t over yet,” Ryan said. “Don’t give up. Don’t let the others give up, either.”
As Doc was dragged away, he called out to Ryan. “I pray we meet again, my dear friend, if not in the here and now, then somewhere beyond this fucking vale of tears.”
“Remember the islander boy,” Ryan called to him. “Remember Garwood Reed.”
Something slammed into his left temple so hard that it made him see stars. He looked up at Fright Mask, who showedhim a balled, metal-gauntleted fist. Ryan was grateful for the blow, which allowed him to focus his anger.
“Unchain me for a minute,” Ryan told his captor, “and I’ll widen that smile all the way to the back of your head.”
The governor-general didn’t understand the threat, and so ignored it. He gestured to the pirates, who pulled Ryan to his feet and hauled him off to one side.
Fright Mask had other, more pressing business to attend to. He snapped his gauntleted fingers twice in High Pile’s direction.
As the Matachìn commander took a small, dog-eared notebook from inside his armor, the priests started making rhythmic scraping sounds, steel on whetstones. They were touching up the edges on their ceremonial daggers.
High Pile walked over to the line of slaves. Pausing in front of the first man, who was naked to the waist, his back and shoulders blistered and peeling from the sun and the lash, the captain referred to a page in his little book and made a check mark with a tiny
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