But Habrunt's countenance was terrible to look upon, so stone-faced and determined was he now.
"Pray, Nelatha," he said only, too afraid of Master Rababull to risk more open defiance of either his Master or any temple god.
Nelatha nodded again, jerkily, and bowed her head.
Then, as Nelatha prayed in a series of hysterically rising whispers,
Habrunt slowly raised the sword high into the air in front of a numbed
Si'Wren, held it trembling in his great fist, and then brought it down
in a mercifully swift flashing arc.
Nelatha's prayers were suddenly cut short, and a collection of gasps was heard from the watching crowd. Habrunt held out the sword behind him without looking, and the visibly shaking runner boy took it back, dripping with Nelatha's blood.
Habrunt's eyes, shot through with grief and an inconsolable look of self-condemnation and awfulness of purpose, looked upon Nelatha's slain body momentarily. He was no longer Habrunt the kind Slavemaster, to whom one might look when trouble raised it's ugly head, but had become an unwilling angel of death instead.
Habrunt finally turned to Si'Wren, who knelt still before him, utterly speechless and motionless. Looking dazed, she gazed long upon the bloody corpse of once-cheerful Nelatha, divided in half at the neck, like the broken jade goddess.
Master Rababull, who was still watching, had said let her never speak again, but live. What could that possibly mean? thought Si'Wren.
Habrunt reached down and almost lovingly slid his trembling, work-roughened fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck with his left hand. As Habrunt tilted Si'Wren's head back her face was lifted up and her tear-streaked cheeks were revealed beneath eyes looking ever-trustingly up into his, in absolute surrender to his will, signifying that she had not the slightest thought of resisting her fate.
But Habrunt could not do what was commanded of him, and hesitated.
There were any number of alternatives, all contrary to Master
Rababull's wishes and hence instantly fatal, but he had a sword.