horribly and obscenely afraid and even more horribly knowing all the while that
he had no reason to be afraid, that this was sorcery; the most demeaning spell
that could be laid on a man. He heard the killer laugh, and Hanse tried to run
faster. Hoping the man did not pursue to confront him. Accost him, Snarl mean
things at him. He could not stand that.
It did not happen that way. The thief who had slain without intending to kill
laughed, but he too was scared, and disconcerted. He fled, slinking, in another
direction. Hanse stumbled-staggered-snivelled on, on. Instinct was not gone but
was heightened; he clung to the shadows as a frightened child to its mother. But
he made noise, noise.
Attracted at the same time as she was repulsed by that whining fearful
gibbering, Mignureal came upon him. ‘What – it’s Han -what are you doing?’
He was seriously considering ending the terror by ending himself with the knife
in his fist. Anything to stop this enveloping, consuming agony of fear. At her
voice he dropped the knife and fell weeping to his knees.
‘Hanse ~ stop that!’
He did not. He could not. He could assume the foetal. He did. Uncomprehending,
the garishly-dressed girl acted instinctively to save him. Her mother liked him
and to Mignureal he was attractive, a figure of romance. In his state, saving
him was easy, even for a thirteen-year-old. Though his hysterical sobbing pleas
brought tears to her eyes, for him, Mignureal tied his wrists behind him. The
while, she breathed prayers known only to the S’danzo.