Kit and Malcolm followed, intoning something in Latin. Both of them had slung their ATLS bags over their shoulders. It was the only hopeful sign she saw. They passed a wagon and a thin horse in harness. The remains of Margo’s PVC raft and Filmar balloon and everything which had survived the wreck had been piled into it. An ominously large stack of wood and two long, thick stakes also weighed it down. Several of the Portuguese stood near it, holding pikes and lit torches. Margo let her steps falter. Then she sank to her knees, weeping. Given the fear jolting through her that something would yet go wrong, tears were remarkably easy to conjure. Kynan lifted her back to her feet and glared at their executioners.
Farther along, waiting for them to pass, were that pig of a military governor and the rest of his disgusting, unwashed swine. All of them carried weapons: black powder firearms, cocked crossbows, swords, or murderous long pikes and daggers. Margo tried to keep her spirits from sinking, but she couldn’t see how Kit planned to escape with an armed contingent that size acting as guard.
They marched completely out of the walled village and moved down the beach, heading south around the wide curve of the bay. Margo remembered the layout of the land. Kit was herding them closer to the gate. The whole parade marched down the wave-scoured beach, moving grimly, silently. Only the creak of the wagon and the crackle of the torches rose above the sound of sea and wind. Kit moved into the lead as though searching for something. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t finding it. Margo knew the gate would open somewhere close to here, but she couldn’t remember precisely where, either.