Drowned out, also, were old Maskron's shouted invocations as he stood
in front of them waving his flashing bronze sword.
In the back of the crowd, Si'Wren dropped her head in anguish, for had
she not also screamed in the past for the death of their enemies when
Master Rababull led the war cry for a neighbor's field? Had not little
Si'Wren once prayed to that ugly physical thing to which other babies
had been sacrificed in the past, and which the others even now still
worshiped so blindly? Would that she might dare to speak and tell them
what her heart had learned, reflected from it's own inner pool, upon
the graces of the Invisible God.
She, who alone might have spoken truth, stood silently amidst the
screaming and drum beating as the shouting went on in a frenzy to kill
the enemy. Master Rababull brought on renewed cheers as he mounted his
stallion, a half-wild white-spotted gray beauty, and rode to the head
of the long riotous formation of shouting men and neighing and stamping
horses.
Behind him the drums thundered until the very air seemed to pulsate
with the blood-lust, and in the midst of this Master Rababull suddenly
raised his sword high in the air and held it up for a long moment as he
whirled it around and around, and finally pointed it straight ahead of
him in a sudden lunging motion.
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