Sir Gavin! My mind is out of my body.
What?
I tried to attack Esek, but I think Sir Kenton stormed me.
Focus on your body, Achan. You must get back to it.
Achan's perspective floated up to the support beams of the platform. He concentrated on his body that lay lifeless on the ground, arms outstretched. He suddenly looked out from his own eyes. It worked! Sir Gavin, where are you?
Eben's breath, lad. Don't try that again. Stay in your own mind or we'll lose you for sure. We're inside the temple.
Praise Arman!
It took us longer than we thought to get here. We had to find a place to leave Locto, but he kept begging to stay with us. I had to knock him out and leave him in an empty tent. I paid the owner handsomely to arrange transportation for Locto back to Melas. But now that we're here, we're unsure how to free you. There are thousands of people here.
Pig snout. Achan sucked in a breath through his nose, willing himself to stay calm. The knights were here. All would soon be well. Don't take too long.
Sir Nongo and Silvo each seized an arm, lifted Achan to his feet, and towed him to the stairs, chains slapping the back of his calves with each step. Brightness and heat engulfed him as he left the underside of the platform. He lowered his head, blinking the scene into focus as they dragged him up the stairs.
When they stepped onto the platform, the audience burst into cheers. Achan shut his eyes, wincing at the ringing in his ears. His shin smacked a sharp edge. His eyes snapped open. Sir Nongo and Silvo stood on the first rung of the ladder leading up to the gangway and spikes high above the platform. Each had looped a ring over his shoulder that held Achan's chains. They pulled his arms up.
Oh, no, no. Achan went limp, pulse throbbing. The black knights dragged him up, rung by rung, to the top. He struggled, tugged, and pushed, but Sir Nongo and Silvo were stronger. The crowd cheered their every ascending step.
At the top, a wooden railing ran along both sides of the gangway, like a narrow bridge. Three gowzals perched on the rail. The knights pushed Achan along the trembling plank. The sharpened tips of the giant support beams glistened before him in the firelight. Would they impale him?
He leaned back, trying to stay put, but the knights inched him along. When Achan reached the gowzals, he elbowed the rail and the beast-birds squawked and fluttered away. The gangplank swayed from the force of Achan's movement.
The knights forced Achan to the end of the gangway until his toes stuck off the end. He peeked down. His breath hitched at the dizzying drop. It hadn't looked so high from below.
Thousands of people filled the grandstands, focused on the man on the platform below, who was talking in the strange language. Achan recognized him now. It was Lord Falkson from the Council meeting in Mahanaim. He was tall and grey-skinned with a pudgy gut and short, grey hair like a shorn sheep. He wore a flowy black tunic and trousers. A huge gowzal perched on his shoulder.
Could Lord Falkson be Hadad, the man who'd visited Achan in the pit? Had he transformed himself like a black knight? Was he their leader?
In the air above Achan's head-a mere arm's-length away-the wooden spikes met, the tips not quite touching. Were they going to hang him? Push him off?
Achan curled his toes over the edge and pressed back. Sir Nongo let him back up to the center of the gangway, then kicked in the back of his knees. They slammed against the wooden platform. Sir Nongo pushed Achan to his stomach and pressed a knee into his back.
Silvo separated Achan's wrists from one another and stepped over his head to the end of the plank, chains clanking against the balusters and railing. Achan couldn't see what Silvo was doing. Overhead, metal scraped against wood. Achan's arms jerked away from his sides, up into the air.
The pressure left Achan's back. Rough hands grabbed his waist and lifted him to his feet. Here it came. Would they toss him out onto the crowd? Would the spikes fling him forward somehow?
"Not to be worrying too much about it, stray," Sir Nongo said. "All soon will be ending."
Achan's arms were loose at his sides, but he soon saw the problem. The metal rings at the end of each of his arm-chains had been looped over the tips of the spikes. Those rings had already slid down past the level of the gangway. If he fell, his weight would force the rings farther down the spikes, pulling his arms away from his body. If his arms managed to stay attached, he'd be left dangling over the center of platform.
What then? Would they stone him? The audience was too far below to do much damage. Shoot arrows? Maybe. But he could see no archers. Perhaps the sharpened beams would shift away from one another, tearing him in half.
On the platform below, Esek strode to Lord Falkson's side, flanked by Sir Kenton and Chora. The crowd erupted into cheers. Esek raised his hands above his head in a familiar arrogance. "Tonight we honor Barthos, god of the soil."
Lord Falkson translated to the audience, his voice deep and booming.
Achan gripped the rail with both hands, desperate for a way out. If he could somehow keep from falling…
"This man is a usurper." Esek pointed above his head. "He would have you turn your backs on Barthos. We must destroy him."
Lord Falkson translated and the people cheered. The gowzal on his shoulder screeched.
Sir Gavin! Where are you?
We're coming. Remember, Arman is stronger than Gazar.
Right. Achan gripped the rail tighter and hooked his left foot around the last baluster.
Behind him, Silvo laughed. "It will do you no good, stray."
Lord Falkson clunked to his knees on the front corner of the platform and lifted his hands to the pointed ceiling, as if worshipping an idol. "Ruwach aphar mayim esh, machmad parar. Gowzal, yarad. Parar no oyeb. Barthos parach. Barthos yarad. Barthos laqach. Barthos dashen. Laqach no minchah. Laqach no oyeb."
The garbled and phlegmy-sounding words hushed the crowd and weakened Achan's knees. He expected green orbs to shoot out from Lord Falkson's hands but none came.
"Thanks for the ring," Silvo whispered in Achan's ear, stretching his hand in front of Achan's face. Prince Oren's ring gleamed on Silvo's olive-skinned hand.
Achan loosened his grip on the railing and swung around to lunge for Silvo.
"Time to die." Silvo pushed him, dark eyes glinting, olive lips twisting in a smile.
Achan lost his balance. A flash of heat seized him as he fell sideways off the platform. A scream tore from his throat.
The rings caught him-nearly jerking his shoulders and wrists from their sockets. Achan's weight pulled the rings farther down the wooden spikes, drawing Achan's arms down and out inch by inch.
He writhed, kicking and gasping and shouting every curse in the king's language. The cuffs cut into the tops of his hands. His arms and wrists throbbed. He dangled above the platform like an animal in a snare.
He had to ease the strain on his arms. He thrashed back and forth, trying to grab the chain with his fingers to spare his hands from the cuffs. He grabbed for the opposite chain, but his sweaty fingers slipped over the metal. With each twist of his body, the rings slid down more, pulling his arms further apart.
Under his feet, Lord Falkson continued to chant his strange language, somehow raising a physical wind with his words. Several gowzals fluttered to perch closer to the man. "Barthos parach. Barthos yarad. Barthos laqach. Barthos dashen. Laqach no minchah. Laqach no oyeb."