It was dusk when the truck finally pulled into the town square of Matara. The normally placid air of the place was still banished by the bustle of activity connected with the hospital. A Komani litter, buoyed by four of the versatile one-man flyers, hovered at the bottom of the town hall’s steps. Evidently more wounded warriors had just rrived. Merchants and farmers had set up stalls along one side of the square, to supply the makeshift hospital with the goods (and a few luxuries) that it required. People of all descriptions were coming and going through the square. Even a Terran scrambler was parked in front of the hospital, Sittas noticed.
He climbed down stiffly from the truck and started toward the steps that led into the town-hall-tumedhospital.
Altai appeared at the door, atop the steps, and ran down to meet him.
“So here you are!” she said. “Clanthas told us you were coming here. We got here before you-*’
“We?” the old man asked, slightly puzzled.
“The Watchman and his aide and I. We came to see you. Vorgens and the sergeant are inside. He’s amazed with the hospital.”
“I see …”
A Komani warrior, dusty and travel-stained, advanced on them. “You are the one called Sittas?”
The old man turned to face the Komani. “Yes, I am Sittas.”
The warrior drew his ceremonial sword. “In the name of Lord Okatar, I must take your life.”
Everyone froze. The square, pulsating with life an instant earlier, became as still as death. No one moved, even the breeze seemed to die, as the Komani held his sword before him, pointed directly at the old priest.