“What do you want?” demanded the slaver, once again.
Nukurren made the gesture of contemptuous dismissal.
“Go,” she said. “Leave the hunnakaku be.”
The slaver slid back two paces on rigid peds. Pink was now predominant on her mantle, and flashes of red fear were beginning to appear. Without moving her eyes from the slaver, Nukurren could detect the same colors on the four mercenaries standing nearby.
A surreptitious motion in the corner of her eye. Once of the mercenaries had touched her flail. Without looking at her, Nukurren said softly:
“If that flail comes out of its harness, I’ll strip the mantle off your body and feed your guts to the slugs.”
Casually, Nukurren drew her own flail. At the sight of it unharnessed, the mercenaries and the slaver fell back. Nukurren’s flail was truly impressive. Twice the size of a normal warflail, it could only be wielded by a gukuy of her immense strength. And where most warflails were armed with flint or obsidian blades, hers gleamed with bronze. The weapon of an elite soldier. And the mercenaries were well aware that the warfork harnessed on the right side of her mantle was a twofork—the most difficult variety to master. The forks on their own mantles were mere sixforks, or even eightforks.
For a moment, all was frozen. Then the tableau was interrupted by the arrival of Kjakukun.
“What in the name of the Clam is going on?” demanded the caravan master.
Nukurren was silent. The slaver began loudly complaining of her conduct. The mercenaries said nothing, but began a slow withdrawal from the scene.
After listening to the slaver, Kjakukun stared at Nukurren.
“So? What’s your explanation?” The caravan master’s mantle showed only the dim azure-gray of annoyance.
“Pointless torture offends me. And the hunnakaku are miserable enough.”
“What torture?” asked Kjakukun. The slaver’s account of the events had not touched upon the darts. Nukurren gave a brief and dispassionate sketch of the scene when she arrived.
The caravan master’s mantle flashed blue. But the anger was directed at the slaver.
“Fukoren, I’ve warned you about this before!”
The slaver cringed back on hunkered peds. Her mantle glowed scarlet.
“But—what’s the harm?” she whined. “They’re only hunnakaku—sub-gukuy!”
Kjakukun’s blue did not diminish. If anything, it darkened.
“They’re merchandise. Not to be damaged unnecessarily. If they’re frightened too much, they get sick, even die. But that’s all beside the point! I gave you an order, and you disobeyed me!”
The caravan master glared around. The four original mercenaries were now drawn far back into the small crowd of mercenaries and slavers who had gathered to watch the scene.
“This trip is dangerous enough,” bellowed Kjakukun, “without indiscipline and sloppiness! We’re still in Kiktu territory, you fools—and now there are these rumors of demons! I won’t tolerate disobedience, do you understand?”
The caravan master was now addressing herself to the assembled crowd. She paused a moment.
“I’ve heard you grumble at the wages I’m paying Nukurren. Three times what you garbage earn. I’m as tight with copper as any, but for this trip it was worth it. I’ll show you why.”
The caravan master turned to Nukurren. Kjakakun’s mantle flashed black. Implacable.
“Kill her,” she said, waving a palp at the slaver.
Until it was seen, it was hard to believe that a gukuy as huge as Nukurren could move so fast. Before the crowd could even whistle with fear, Nukurren drew her fork and slammed it into the slaver’s mantle. Driven by Nukurren’s great strength, the two razor-sharp bronze prongs were driven completely through the ganahide armor and the tough cartilage of the mantle. With a twist of her palps on the crossbar of the hook, Nukurren flipped the slaver onto her side. The slaver’s two tentacles clutched at the hook in a hopeless attempt to pry it loose. The six arms clustered about her beak were knotted in pain.
The killing stroke which followed struck the slaver like a lightning bolt. The blow drove the flail-blades deep into the unarmored soft tissue of the slaver’s underbelly. With a great jerk, the slaver’s bowels were ripped out and scattered about the ground in a spray of blood. Pieces of gut spattered the crowd. With another quick twist of her right tentacle Nukurren tossed the corpse of the slaver aside, freeing the prongs of her fork.