The wheeled tub was set in place beside the altar. It moved easily and smoothly. Then, again, the altar-crew retreated through the bulkhead.
This time, when they returned, they bore a living, struggling creature.
Man-sized, the thing was like no animal Jarl had ever seen before, with brown, bead-like skin and tiny brain-case. Off-hand, he judged it to belong to some desert species native to this grit-drifted hell-hole, Womar.
The primitives carried it to the altar; clamped its spradled body face up atop the stone with the ancient shackles. The din of the crowd was deafening.
Somewhere on high, a great gong sounded. The shouts and screaming died away.
In the same instant, a new door opened in the bulkhead. Another primitive stepped forth; paused, posing.
This creature's garb was different from the others! His metal mask was ebon. So were his plumes, his girdle. A great scarlet jewel was set in the forehead of the dead-black helmet. His hands were gloved in sleek jet gauntlets.
Now, while Jarl watched, the posing primitive's arms came up, till the gloved hands were high above his head, displayed, as if they were a symbol.
The throng below stood frozen, rigid.