Thanks reviewers! We're sorta at the half way mark now, so, a pat on the back for being so dedicated, to reviewers and readers alike.
The next chapter, incidentally, is my favourite... so be nice...
Chapter Ten
It was raining hard.
"I'm cold… and wet… And…did I say… I was hungry?" He was certainly flagging, taking deep breaths into his jacket collar that he held tight over his chin. An ineffectual effort against the downpour.
But at least it muffled his whining.
"Yeah." Sheppard glanced at his watch, though it was difficult to see it while they were on the move. He fabricated an answer though it probably wasn't far from the truth. "Exactly one minute and thirty four seconds ago, when you ate the last of our power bars."
"You remember?" Sheppard shook his head, as if to say, 'do I just!'
"You see, I don't," sniffed Rodney miserably, wiping away the water dripping from the end of his nose. "The approach of… a hypoglycemic… attack…Things sort of… sort of go all fuzzy… round the edges."
Sheppard rolled his eyes. He had heard it all before.
Rodney stopped suddenly, bent over and rested his hands on his knees, drawing in gasps of air. Sheppard came to a halt too. Impatient. Rodney then stood, grimacing, rubbing a stitch in his side.
"And…you're going way…way too…fast." Sheppard had been maintaining a steady pace. Nearly a jog, in fact. He believed it essential. They had little idea how much ground they needed to cover before they went on to help Ronon locate Lorne. If all went according to plan, Sheppard aimed to have all the answers to the Replicator situation on M12 23D and be away from the planet by nightfall.
And who wanted to be out in this weather longer than necessary? 'I hate rain,' he thought, adding it to his hate list of clowns, iratus bugs and Wraith Queens. It might have been something to do with the storm on Alora…
He grabbed Rodney's arm and pushed him forward, irritably. And then softened with some words of encouragement.
"If we make good time, I might treat you to a meal. Call it a late birthday gift." Even Marines, he found, sometimes needed the carrot and not the stick.
"Oh right, Mr. Generous, and that would be with Teyla's money? And my birthday was, like, seven months ago! And it hasn't gone unnoticed - your use of keywords - if and might!"
Well, not much of a concession then, but it was still enough to buy Rodney, who proceeded to slog on, following Sheppard's faster pace setting.
The rain thankfully began to ease. Though the going underfoot didn't improve. They were in open meadows, and the long grass, waterlogged and bent double, snagged at their legs. A bluish peaty mud underneath squelched and sucked at their boots. Ahead, in a thickening mist, the dim outlines of the town could be seen. At its outskirts, Sheppard waited for Rodney to catch up, taking cover behind a large tree. If there were Replicators here, he obviously didn't wish to be spotted.
From his vantage point, he had a complete view of the way ahead. Teyla had called it a town but from here it seemed little more than an encampment, with log style cabin buildings lining a dull blue shingled road. Some were open-fronted, serving as shops and stalls, lit by lamps, filled, probably with some kind of oil. They illuminated little of the grey outside, but were cosy and inviting all the same. And obviously attracting many customers as the street was a confusion of noise and business. Street traders with covered hand-drawn carts, called and advertised their wares. Pots. Apples. Lengths of cloth. Dogs barked and goats bleated where milk was offered for sale. Jugglers and musicians performed. Children ran loose, laughing and playing. Chickens clucked and pecked aimlessly here and there, or were caged ready for an evening meal. An aroma of something similar to roasted chestnuts permeated the air, mixing with that of freshly baked bread.
"Hmm! That smell, tell me I haven't just died and gone to Heaven!" Rodney had at long last joined Sheppard. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, relishing every last atom and molecule of scent.
"Hang in there, Rodney. The inn's about twenty doors down." He'd spotted a sign of two flagons of frothing ale hanging over the front of one of the buildings. "We'll go along the back."
Keeping low and skirting gardens and outbuildings, they were still able to catch glimpses of the street through the many side passages. There were no signs of any Replicators. Unless they'd taken to wearing the same garments as the local folk. These seemed oblivious to the weather, protected by heavy woollen great coats and hats. Both female and male alike. Perhaps then, it rained here everyday. Some were stained with the blue clay exactly as Teyla had described. There were even beggars to be seen, but most locals were smartly dressed, out trading or enjoying a day's outing.
"They're not exactly your typical down trodden masses, are they?" observed Rodney on the one occasion he managed to keep up with Sheppard. Sheppard agreed. If Replicators were here, and were mining, they weren't using the local populace as slave labour.
They arrived at the rear of the inn and edged along the alley at the side, peering into a couple of windows on the way before reaching the street. Sheppard checked up and down, searching faces in the crowd, while Rodney hid at his back. It was more force of habit than cowardice. In tight situations, Ronon was always telling him: "if you wanna stay alive, stay behind me." Always seemed like good advice.
"What do you think?" he whispered into Sheppard's shoulder. "Is it safe?"
"I guess." Sheppard didn't sound very confident.
"If it was ok for Teyla and Ronon, its ok for us, isn't it?"
"Yes but why are there no Replicators?"
"Perhaps too busy? On vacation? Or-"
"-Or we've got it completely wrong," frowned Sheppard. He was starting to believe they were wasting their time here. Though Ronon and Teyla hadn't actually seen Replicators. They really did need to find the location of that second mine if it existed. "Ok. Let's go for it."
"Wait!" Rodney pulled Sheppard back by his sleeve.
"What?"
"Did you check for cameras? They'd be no need to come into town if there was surveillance."
"There can't be any! No one came for Teyla and Ronon before when they were asking around. Didn't we just decide that?" said Sheppard, getting cross again.
"Sorry. Forgot. Just a suggestion. Hunger, you know," apologised Rodney, gesturing to his empty stomach.
"Yeah. Let's get in the inn, then, shall we?"
"In the inn?"
"Yeah. In the inn. That's what I said."
They left their hiding place in the side alley and threading their way through chatting groups of people, made it to the entrance door. Sheppard was about to enter first, when the door was suddenly flung open and a dishevelled man was thrown out head first, landing in a heap in the space made for him by startled on-lookers.
"You try that with my girls and you pay! Understand? You don't get to do that for nothing!" The passers-by stopped and stared as the man picked himself up, leering back at the closing door with malice. He thought better of retaliation, however, realizing he was under the close scrutiny of the crowd, and staggered away, probably to find somewhere to sleep off his inebriation.
"Huh, Teyla wasn't far wrong with the ill repute part, was she?" remarked Rodney. The two exchanged amused glances and entered the inn.
The noise of raucous laughter, drunken song and loud argument hit them. As did the heat and stench of too many unclean bodies close together. Ale and liquors flowed freely, swilling onto the floor. Gambling at many tables, the winners assisted by pretty ladies wearing too much red and rouge. Outside had been some semblance of gentility. Here was the mob and rabble.
"It feels like the set of some pirate movie," murmured Sheppard in a low voice.
They elbowed their way through the crush of inn clientele heading for a wooden bar on the far side. A buxom bodiced waitress, carrying a tray of flagons above her head was compelled to press up close to Sheppard. She smiled at him seductively. Reluctant to move on from her position of close proximity. Reluctant to move on from her position of very close proximity. Sheppard returned the smile appreciatively. Rodney leading, pulled him forward with a jerk.
"Mind on the job, Captain Jack Sparrow!"
They squeezed two places at the bar. Now it was Rodney's turn to be smiled at. A short balding man with only one large front tooth and warts on his face stood on his left, gazing at him. Rodney tried to ignore him. But that fixed gaze was disconcerting. Rodney coughed, uncomfortable.
"Go on, talk to the guy!" encouraged Sheppard, obviously enjoying Rodney's affliction.
"What?!"
"We're not gonna get served any time soon, are we? We need info. and then get out."
"That's not what you were thinking a minute ago!"
"Just talk to the guy, will you!"
Rodney cleared his throat again. "Busy here today?"
"Yeah, always like this on Quarter Days." The man spat and dribbled with every word, making him even less endearing to Rodney.
"Go on," said an apparently unconcerned Sheppard, trying to catch the barman's eye. "You're doing just fine."
"Right." Rodney hesitated, squirming with the ordeal. Unable to look the man directly in the face on account of that crazy smile of adulation. "Quarter Days? They're… um… some sort of religious festival then?"
"You don't know? I didn't think you were from round here. Nah. Quarter Days is execution days. Comes round four times every year. Is when we rid ourselves o' the scum o' the world."
"Hmm. Sure you caught them all?" asked Rodney, looking round at the company.
"We always get a holiday on Quarter Days. So we can watch the executions." He said that with great relish. Rodney was suddenly appalled. These people watch executions for fun?
The barman, wearing a soiled leather apron came over. The same guy who'd carried out the ejection at the door.
"Fedoc! Quit bothering these folks! Go on! They don't want to be talking to the likes of you."
The man skulked away.
"What can I do for you?" asked the barman, slopping dirty water, going through the motions of cleaning the bar top in front of him.
"My friend here was wondering if you served food," said Sheppard easily.
"He wants food?" He seemed as much alarmed as surprised.
"We can pay," assured Sheppard, pulling out Teyla's pouch.
"No. No. You keep your coins. I am honoured to serve a Nannoid." He bowed slightly to Sheppard but cast Rodney and his P90 a doubtful up and down look. "We have bean broth. Cold meats. And because of Quarter Day, a chicken stew."
"I'll settle for cold meats," Rodney believed it safest. Though he truthfully believed it safest not to eat at all, judging from the dirt and grime soiling the bar surface.
"Find a table and a waitress will bring out your meal." And the man left to see to their order.
"He thinks you're a Nannoid!" hissed Rodney as soon as he had gone.
"But not you?"
"I'm having a meal. You know, we've never been able to find out how much of the Asuran make-up is organic. Whether they actually consume food. Apparently not, then."
Sheppard was keen to keep the illusion that he was a Nannoid going. The barman had already demonstrated a degree of mistrust towards Rodney and he didn't think they'd ever have any chance of gaining info. from anyone if they discovered that he too wasn't a Nannoid. No ordering a drink then. And he was thirsty and had been tempted to buy ale.
They sat side by side at a table at the back wall. An empty place wasn't too difficult to find now, as fellow patrons of the inn were departing in dribs and drabs, bidding each other farewell. At this rate, there soon wouldn't be anyone to ask questions. The waitress of Sheppard's earlier encounter passed by and began to clear a neighbouring table. Sheppard caught her eye and smiled again. Busy with a cloth, she smiled back.
"Will you quit that!" objected Rodney. Sheppard ignored him, extracting a large coin from the pouch and carefully placing it on the table in front of him.
"Care to sit with us a while?" he invited. With no hesitation, she abandoned her dirty crocks and came to sit opposite Sheppard. She rested her chin on the backs of her hands and flirted with her eyes. Sheppard did likewise.
"I don't believe this!" protested Rodney, in disbelief.
Again Sheppard ignored him. "And what's your name?"
"Milly."
"Milly's a real pretty name," he drawled provocatively.
"Thank you." She lowered a hand, to toy coquettishly with the coin, knowing the movement would bring her closer to Sheppard.
"And tell me, Milly, you like Nannoids?"
"I don't know. I've never been with one. It might be kind of interesting," replied Milly with a wicked tone.
"Oh please!" Rodney could stand it no longer. "He meant it in the generic sense of the word! Nannoids. As a whole. Do you like them? Yes or no will be suffice!" Sheppard kicked him sideways under the table. It was too late, however. The girl, stiffened and sat up, already sensing a different motive behind the question.
"Nannoids are good people," she replied guardedly.
"Good? People?" Rodney was incredulous. As far as he was concerned, you just didn't put the words good, people and Replicators in the same sentence. What Millie had said just didn't make sense.
"In return for our labourers in the mine, they have built us a hospital. Staffed it with a doctor and nurses. Provided a school for our children where they are instructed in their technology. Constucted roads for us and soon, they hope to effect a change in our weather systems so that we may grow better and more crops. If we were ever to be visited by the Wraith they have weapons that will protect us." It was quite an affirmation and seemed totally genuine. Though there was something about it suggesting she believed this was a test of some sort and she was careful to be correct.
"And the labourers in the mine. They are… content?" Rodney decided to continue with this line of questioning.
"Oh yes."
"And nothing is too taxing? They don't, for instance…" Rodney stopped, pretending to think of an example, "find the journey to work too far or too strenuous?"
"Oh no. The new road from the meeting house in the square takes you straight there."
"Thank you, Milly. That's all we needed to know," concluded a satisfied Rodney, giving Sheppard a smug look. They now possessed the exact location of the Replicator mine. And knew that one existed.
The barman arrived with Rodney's food, glaring at Milly.
"You should be serving at tables," he growled. She stood and flounced off, snatching the coin from the table before she left.
"Hang on! This isn't what I ordered!" complained Rodney but the barman had left too.
"Just eat it! We need to be going." Rodney was peering disparagingly into a steaming bowl of chicken stew.
"And what if it's got lemons in it-"
"-They don't grow lemons here," butted in Sheppard quickly, before he received the full run down on Rodney's lemon allergy.
"You know that for a fact?" He asked, scoffing a mouth full of side order bread. Sheppard was probably right. It rained too much for lemons. And he really was starving. And that was probably down to the weather too. With great relish, he plunged in the spoon, allergy or no.
"You know, this doesn't make sense," Rodney was chewing and talking at the same time, "altruistic Asurans? A small group then? Trying to Ascend? Like Niam on the Replicator Homeworld? Though," another mouthful, "they wouldn't really need a local labour force. Everything would be fully autonomized. Just trying to keep the folks here happy?" He went to take yet another bite of bread.
"Hey! You! You're eating my food!" And a fist banged down hard on the table.
Rodney started. Dropped his bread, nearly upsetting his bowl, which he nervously steadied with both hands. He looked up and swallowed hard.
His accuser was… huge.
Taller than Ronon and probably four times his girth. With as much hair and beard. But black and unkempt. An ugly face made uglier by the drunken aggression that was there. He glowered from his position near Sheppard, who'd been forced to stand pretty damn quickly to avoid being elbowed in the face. All those in the room fell silent and motionless, staring in their direction. Great. So much for a low profile, thought Sheppard. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the barman was sending out an errand-boy. Probably to call the local equivalent of the cops. This had to be sorted before they arrived.
"I'm…I'm sorry. It was a misunderstanding. Here. You take it," stammered Rodney.
"I don't want it now after you've been eating it!" bellowed the man. Though he didn't seem like he'd ever been that particular before in his whole life.
"No. No. Of course not. Help me out here, Sheppard!" Rodney pleaded.
"We'll order you another," offered Sheppard, forcing a smile.
"That was the last lot! The barman told me!" And with that he lunged across the table reaching for Rodney's throat.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" cautioned Sheppard, attempting to hold him back with both hands. Sheppard was merely flung to one side like a rag doll, crashing down awkwardly against his chair and falling to the floor, jarring his head on the wall behind. The room swung round for a second. And when Sheppard had managed to level it again, he saw that the man had rounded the table, lifted Rodney by his collar and had pinned him up against the wall. Sheppard struggled to his feet.
"I get really riled when someone steals my food!" growled the giant.
"You do? Hm… Me too!" squeaked Rodney, begging Sheppard with his eyes to do something.
This didn't justify the use of Sheppard's P90. A last resort, perhaps, yes. A weapon like Ronon's, with stunner selection would be good. That should be standard issue, he thought. Right now, he'd settle for an elephant gun with a tranquiliser dart…
He grabbed a chair. Swung it high and hard, down on the man's head.
The chair smashed to smithereens. There was a groan. And the big guy's hold on Rodney instantly relaxed. He started to fall backwards. Sheppard tossed the remains of the chair to one side and deftly moved out of way as Rodney's attacker crashed to the floor.
Ok. That shouldn't have been that easy.
The man raised a hand weakly, moaned again and then lay still. Too still. A woman screamed and rushed to his side. "Gavod! Gavod! What have they done to you?! Oh Gavod, my husband!" She lifted a lifeless hand to her cheek and wept inconsolably.
Rodney, meanwhile was gasping and choking, leaning on the wall.
"You ok?" asked Sheppard, keeping a wary eye on the other inn customers.
Who were beginning to circle round them.
Rodney gestured feebly, bravely waving him off.
The woman was continuing with her crying. Sheppard knelt on one knee beside her, feeling for a pulse on her husband's neck. Dammit. The guy was dead. The woman saw his look of alarm.
"Oh Gavod! Oh Gavod!" She appealed to the crowd. "He had a weak heart, you know! They have killed him! They have killed my Gavod!"
Sheppard didn't stand soon enough.
And Rodney hadn't yelled his warning soon enough.
Half a dozen of the townspeople suddenly seized hold of Sheppard's arms, dragging him on his knees, away from the body and grieving widow. He vainly struggled. Attempting to put a foot down to give himself leverage. To push himself up and get free. Shouting at Rodney to run for it. But Rodney had already been overcome. Caught while fumbling for his P90. He hadn't even managed to stand up straight yet. And was easy prey. Pulled and shoved. And thrown down to kneel beside Sheppard.
Though on his knees, Sheppard was still straining with every muscle to escape. His efforts multiplied when pawing hands removed his vest and rifle. He succeeded in freeing an arm, madly and indiscriminately striking anyone who came near. One of those grasping his other arm, was able to come close enough to clutch at his hair, yanking back his head till his neck hurt. Well, that stopped him. Powerless to fight any longer, his hands were grabbed and bound tightly behind his back, leather ties cutting into his wrists. They weren't going to take any chances. For whoever was pulling his hair still hung in there. And the guy had been provided with a knife that he held nice and close to Sheppard's jugular. And he wasn't too particular about holding it steady. Sheppard hissed with the pain.
"Should've had more lessons with Teyla," remarked Rodney gloomily. Yeah, thanks for that.
Sheppard couldn't reply. And even swallowing was difficult. He dearly wanted to tell the guy behind him to lay off. They'd gotten him where they wanted him, hadn't they? He assumed Rodney was also bound and deprived of his vest but he now had such an oblique view of the room, it wasn't easy to tell. He was aware of a commotion at the door. Apparently, the local guard had arrived. He didn't get an eyeball on them until they were directly in front. They wore metal breastplates over leather tunics and uncomfortable looking helmets. Swords as weapons. Not Replicators thankfully.
"Look. This is a dreadful mistake-" began Rodney's protest.
"You won't speak until asked." This spoken with firmness and unmistakable threat. From a guard who sported a blue feather plume. The officer then. He was good. He'd shut Rodney up before the scientist had hardly got started. Sheppard wished he had that kind of power.
Someone was resuming a previous explanation. "You see, they are not Nannoids. The taller one there is grazed on his hand." When Sheppard broke the chair. Yeah. And it hurts, thought Sheppard. "And now the cut on his neck… And the shorter one, ordered and consumed food."
"Yet they carry weapons that are much like the Nannoids," observed the officer.
"They must have stolen them!" This Sheppard recognised as the barman. "Like they stole food from me pretending to be Nannoids. Liars as well as thieves and murderers!"
Rodney could never hold back for very long. "That's so not true!"
"Quiet!" The officer was losing his touch. As Rodney took little notice.
"We acted in self-defence-"
That did it.
A smack to the side of the head should usually work on Rodney.
Or not.
Rodney was certainly being persistent in a big way. "We weren't to know he had a weak heart." He had to speak very quickly before the next strike. Sheppard instinctively moved to come to Rodney's aid but the increased pressure of a knife blade at his neck reminded him that wasn't such a very good idea.
The officer moved forward, more into Sheppard's field of vision, impassively looking down into Sheppard's upturned face.
"So, this is the one who dealt the fatal blow?"
"Yes! It is he who killed my beloved Gavod!" Several occupants in the room agreed with her. "He did not deserve to die that way!" Again much agreement. It appeared suddenly that the big guy had been popular, though it couldn't have been for his charm and good looks.
The officer walked away abruptly. "Culpability has been proven! Take them to join the others!"
"What others? What others? Where are we going?" worried Rodney, as guards on either side of him hauled him to his feet. It might as well have been a rhetorical question as no one answered. Sheppard had his own two guards and they were led out into the street, where yet more guards surrounded them to form an escort. He was perversely thankful to be out of the inn. His knife-holding assistant had been dumped finally.
A light dreary drizzle fell. The street was empty, free of the former crowds. With a clear path, they were hustled along at a smart pace.
The street was empty.
Their predicament was pretty dire to say the least. But the thought that now went through Sheppard's head fairly made his stomach lurch. He'd found the answer to Rodney's questions.
The street was empty. It was a public holiday. A Quarter Day… Execution day.
And it was soon confirmed.
Up ahead could be seen a thick gathering of people. Murmuring. And then a sudden loud cheer.
Rodney's group were in front. "Where are they taking us?" called Rodney desperately over his shoulder, completely mystified. Mercifully, he hadn't figured it out yet.
Dammit! There was no way to escape this. There was no way to throw off this number of guards. And Ronon had no way of knowing they needed rescuing. Sheppard had never arranged a dead line. A rendezvous. This was in every way his own fault. And he had led Rodney to it. This was Private Lorne all over again.
They were taken around the back of the crowd. Faces turned to watch them go by. Some jeers and mocking laughter.
And there it was.
A timber platform standing at head height, set on a dozen stout wooden poles. Men were visible moving around up there.
And one of them was wearing a black hood with holes cut for eyes.
"Oh no! No! No! No! No! This cannot be happening!" Rodney was pale and wide-eyed. "Haven't you people heard of trials? Or juries?" Rodney and Sheppard and their entourage had come to a halt at the bottom of a set of steps that led to the top.
"I think, Rodney, we had that at the inn," said Sheppard, almost inaudibly.
To one side, a cart had been placed, with an ox patiently waiting in its traces. A dull thump signified that more of its load had just been pushed unceremoniously off the platform.
The guards with drawn swords, untied their hands and roughly removed their jackets. Make a break for it now? Any better to die by a sword down here than up there…? But there were just too many guards. And too many drawn swords.
"John?... My sister…" There was a tremor in Rodney's voice. "No one will ever know…" Sheppard felt pretty choked too. Would it be any consolation to Rodney that at least someone would miss him? He only wished he could convey, somehow, all the deep regret… sorrow… pity he was feeling right now. Not realising that in one brief glance he'd done just that.
Their hands were re-tied.
Rodney rallied round a little. "You haven't a plan, then? Any crazy plan will do."
"No. There is no plan," he said quietly. Attack at the top? Element of surprise? There were less guards up there, after all? That was as good as it was going to get. They waited for the previous unfortunate's guard to dismount the stairs.
"Of all the ends, I never imagined… never thought of…" Rodney's agonised mind couldn't supply the word. "What…What do you think it… feels like?"
"Don't!"
"Do you think it'll…hurt?… Much?"
"Don't!"
"Up!" ordered one of the men. Their arms were grabbed once more and they were manhandled up the steps. Rodney first.
They'd been a low buzz of conversation from the crowd which now turned to loud clapping and cheering at their appearance on the platform, delighted with an additional show for the day. An outrageously dressed man in bright red and green squared check, a town crier or court jester of sorts, was announcing their crimes.
"Guilty of mendacity! Guilty of thievery! Guilty of murder!" Each indictment encouraged a louder cheer from the crowd, settling down to a general chatter as final preparations were made.
Rodney was shoved to the front, to stand before the block and stared down in utter dismay. Sheppard was dragged to the back of the platform and forced down on his knees again, his guards still maintaining a tight hold on his upper arms.
If they had any chance of escape now, it'd be down to Rodney, virtually free of his guards.
The executioner was cleaning his axe with a bloodstained rag, dipping it into bloody red water held in a wooden bucket, which he then picked up and sloshed over the block and Rodney's feet. Rodney hardly flinched. He was numb. No way could Rodney be expected to initiate any attack.
"You did the killing! You can watch your friend die first!" snarled a guard in Sheppard's ear. Sheppard reacted instantly, struggling again to break free. He might as well fight now as any other time. He nearly succeeded. His guards lost their grip of his arms, reduced to snatching at his shirt. But one of Rodney's guards had dropped back and using the hilt of his sword struck Sheppard hard across the side of the face.
The crowd roared their approval.
It was a weird noise to Sheppard.
A whizzing deep in his head. Coming from the blackness that was there.
And weirder. The floor of the platform hit him too.
"Sheppard!" He mustn't pass out. Rodney needed him. He blinked hard and opened his eyes.
"Hey, don't damage the goods!" complained a black blur in the sky. He shut his eyes tight again to fight the nausea. The pain ripping his left jaw and temple. "Sheppard!" Rodney needed him. He had to get his eyes open.
A boot crushed down on the back of his neck. Pressing his injured face hard against the timber boards. What was it with these guys and necks? And didn't they listen to their executioners?
"John!" Rodney needed him. He sprung his eyes open. "Rodney?" but his voice was nothing more than a feeble moan.
The green and red jester was speaking. More like a clown now. This was surreal. He hated clowns.
"It is customary for the executioner to be given a coin for the trouble of sharpening his axe for a clean cut and speedy death."
The jester prodded Rodney and nodded to the axe man waiting for his pay. Rodney merely stared at the jester blankly. He was still in a state of shock.
"Rodney!" called Sheppard. Louder this time. Able to lift his head a fraction. Rodney glanced in his direction. And the old McKay made a smart return.
"You're kidding me, right?" he said, addressing the Jester. The latter shook his head.
"Well, I don't seem to have any loose cash on me at the moment! Perhaps if you were to come back later?!" Rodney was in true sarcastic form. There was laughter from the crowd and then jeers and cries of 'get on with it!' The jester promptly exited down the steps. "Hmm, not going to ask me for any last words, then?" More laughter.
Rodney's guards, not amused, abruptly forced him down on his knees.
This was going to happen all too quickly.
They were going to die here.
Horribly.
And Rodney was going to die here horribly first.
"Rodney!" The shout nearly gagged in Sheppard's throat. Tightness in his chest. Heart pounding loud against his skull.
Somewhere... from somewhere he had to find some strength. He threw off the guard at his neck, rolled over, and made it up onto one knee, only to be overpowered once more. He twisted and writhed desperately, the guards grappling at his arms and ripping his shirt to restrain him. "Rodney!"
"Oh no! No! You can't do this!" protested Rodney, frantically struggling with his bindings, as hands roughly pushed his head and shoulders down onto the block.
Rodney could speak no more. His words, strangled and choked by the hard wood pressed against his throat.
The crowd fell silent.
"Rodney!" Sheppard. Alone. "Rodney!"
The executioner heaved with his axe, the blade arcing silently and swiftly through the cold white sky.