Straub turned toward the countess. “All is ready.”
“Begin.”
Straub called out orders to the men, as though it were a military exercise, like presenting arms. “Front rank, bend and pick up one stone. Straighten. Second rank, bend and pick up a stone, straighten. On the word, first rank will throw their stones. Then on a count of three, the second rank will do the same, while the third rank bend to pick up stones. On a second count of three, the second rank will throw their missiles and the first rank will pick up more stones. And so on until the word is given by the countess to cease the execution.”
“Gaia, I’ve never seen anything like this,” Krysty whispered, touching Ryan on the arm.
“I have. Not that unusual as a sort of sun-king crop-fertility ritual in some primitive frontier pestholes. Seen one in a little place called Jackson, out in backwoods Missouri, where they had a ceremony with the whole ragged-assed community drawing stones from a bag. Just once a year, early in the growing season. Person got the black stone was the sacrifice for that year. But never seen it before as method of execution.”
“Begin,” Straub yelped delightedly.
Most of the men had picked stones around the size of a baseball. But they were jagged flints, with cruel points and razored edges.
Each row consisted of eighteen men.
Ryan noticed immediately that their hearts weren’t in the killing. Only four stones struck Gummer, mainly glancing blows on his chest and hips, making him stagger, a couple of them drawing threads of bright crimson blood.
The second row did little better. Five hits, only one of them carrying any weight, hitting Gummer on the thigh, bringing a gasp of shock, a trickle of blood and an instant bruise.
The countess wasn’t a stupid woman, and she saw what was happening, calling out in a sharp, cold voice for the execution to stop.
“If I see any man aiming wide or not throwing with all his might, then that man will be tied to stand beside the wretched Gummer. And he will not have the benefit of Straub’s mercy. You may begin again.”
There was no doubting her intent.
The result when the stoning recommenced showed the power that she held over her ville and her men.
Krysty and Mildred both winced and looked away as nearly all the sharp rocks found their helpless target, thudding home, two of them hitting Gummer in the head. One slashed open his cheek, the white of bone showing for a moment before the flood of crimson veiled. The other hit him above the ear as he half turned, tearing the scalp, knocking him off his feet, leaving him huddled and weeping in the dirt.
“Your hypnotism helping the poor bastard?” Ryan said. “Still seems a lot of blood and pain.”
“Be much worse if I hadn’t hypnotized him. Countess didn’t give me long enough to put him under deeply, but he’s still going to find the passing easier.”
Another volley of stones hissed in from the next row of sec men. Almost all found their sitting target, with sounds like a baseball bat striking a side of beef, wet and solid.
Three hit Gummer on the skull, and he slumped down, unconscious, feet twitching, the only sound in the quarry his bare toes scraping in the grit. His face was a pulped red mask.
“Why not chill him with a bullet?” the Armorer said. “Point’s been made.”
Straub shook his head, the sunlight glinting off the sweating, shaved pate. “Not the way of the ville,” he said quietly. “During the time I’ve been with the countess, she’s never failed to get her own way. Never. No matter what it takes.”
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Remember that, Ryan Cawdor. What she wants from you is a small favor. Refusal can bear a massively disproportionate price. Not just for you.”
“How’s that?”
Straub pulled his mouth into a grimace that might have been a smile. “All I can say. Last time I’ll say it. Give it some serious thought, Ryan.”
Another round of stones flew at the slumped, motionless figure, then Katya Beausoleil held up a gloved hand. “Enough,” she said. “Tip the offal into his hole in the dirt.”