Private Rogue

Chapter 19

The elder barked a command in Kamviri, and a man stepped forward from the crowd. He was dressed in black, a red sash tied around his waist. He held a long sword in his right hand. Reflected flames danced along its polished blade. Floyd’s stomach lurched as he realized he was looking at his executioner.

“I’m not a thief or a spy,” he protested, backing away. “I’m an American soldier who was shot down. You can hold me as a prisoner-of-war, but you cannot execute me.”

The elder said something Floyd didn’t understand. Scarface and his other jailer grabbed hold of Floyd’s arms and pushed him forward. He tried to resist, but they held fast and forced him on. The executioner’s gaze did not waver. Floyd could tell from the thin half-smile on his face that this was a man who enjoyed his work.

After a few steps, Scarface and his companion forced Floyd to his knees.

“No!” he cried, trying to push himself up.

He was rewarded with a punch, which dazed him.

“Don’t struggle and it will be quick,” the elder advised.

Floyd fought and bucked against the two men holding him, but they dragged him to the right of the fireplace, where the crowd parted to reveal a wooden block stained black and marred by deep scores. Two metal eyelets and a long leather strap left no doubt as to the block’s purpose.

“You can’t do this,” Floyd protested as he was hauled over to the block.

He tried to force himself up, but someone threw the leather strap over his shoulders and a moment later he was pinned in position. His legs kicked at the floor, to no effect.

“No!” Floyd yelled as he saw the executioner approach.

The man raised his sword and muttered something under his breath. Reflected flames danced across the blade, and the edge glinted in the golden light.

Floyd felt a lump form in his throat and his stomach churned with nausea as he faced reality: he was about to die. He would never see his wife or children again. Never hold his son or hug his daughter. He felt tears spring to his eyes.

“Please,” he begged.

There was a sudden crash and the clatter of wood hitting something solid. Someone yelled something in Kamviri, and there was commotion in the crowd. The elder replied and was challenged by a new voice. Floyd tried to turn, but he was held fast. He heard footsteps behind him, and another exchange with the elder.

A moment later, a man came into view. Although he wore a navy blue shalwar kameez beneath a thick woolen coat, there was no mistaking his Western features. He reached out and began to pull the leather strap from Floyd’s shoulders. He could have wept when he felt it go slack.

The new arrival helped him to his feet and offered Floyd his hand.

“My name is John,” he said in a British accent.

“Joshua Floyd, Captain, US Army. How did you...?”

“I advised them that executing a US soldier would have repercussions. I’m sorry, I only just learned of your capture, otherwise I would have been here sooner.”

The elder said something to John.

“He says I must pledge my honor for you.”

Floyd looked lost.

“It means they’ll execute me in your place if it turns out you are a spy or a thief,” John explained gravely. “Don’t worry,” he added, breaking into a smile, “he has no intention of killing me. He’s just trying to save face.”

John replied to the elder, and a murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

John steered Floyd toward the exit and led him out into the freezing night.