Before Ronan could run--or decide not to--one of Barthol's men had him with a blade at his throat.
"Oh, I think we want him, too, Seeker," Barthol said. "To keep you in line. Now, tell your cur to stop growling or we'll give him cause."
Ashyn laid her hand on Tova's head, but he stopped even before that. If there'd been a chance of overpowering the men, he'd have attacked already.
"Good girl." Barthol moved in front of her. "Turn around and go back inside your pretty little cage. I will count to three, and if you are not inside, the boy dies. One . . . two . . ."
She flung the door open, with Tova at her side, both of them stumbling over the body of the unconscious guard. Barthol shoved Ronan in with her, then strode over, lifted the guard by the front of his tunic, and slapped him hard enough that even Ronan winced. The man jerked awake.
"So . . ." Barthol said. "You let the Seeker and her brat boy escape."
"What?" He looked around wildly and when his gaze settled on Ashyn, she saw accusation there, and felt it, too, even as she told herself she'd done nothing wrong, that they were clearly the victims here.
"They bashed you on the head and escaped."
"I--"
"Are you going to tell me you let them go? That your conscience would not permit you to hold a Seeker captive?"
"No, of course not. I--"
"The alternative is that you were stupid enough to be fooled by two children. I would suggest, as a warrior, you stay with the first excuse. At least then you'll die with honor."
"D-die?" The guard scrambled to his feet.
Ashyn leaped forward. "It was my fault, not his. Please don't--"
"Silence, Seeker, or your boy dies. Back up three paces, or your boy dies. Do anything to displease me and your boy dies." He met her gaze with a chilling smile, silver teeth flashing. "Is that clear?"
She backed up. Ronan took her arm and tried to lead her into their quarters.
"No, boy," Barthol called. "She stays and she watches what she's done." He turned to the guard. "Take out your dagger, warrior. You know what to do with it."
"No," Ashyn blurted. "Please--"
She stopped as one of the other mercenaries stepped toward Ronan, his blade raised. Ronan put his arm around Ashyn, moving up behind her and whispering, "Keep your gaze on the wall beside him. Look, but don't look. Think of something else."
As Ronan whispered, the warrior pleaded.
"Please. I have a family. My wife, my children. My parents are aged, and I'm their only son. Give me any punishment, any at all. Please."
Barthol's men flanked him, one on each side, pressing down on his shoulders until he sat cross-legged, in the proper position. One took out the guard's dagger and put it in his hand.
"Do you know the point of ritual suicide?" Barthol sounded bored. "I may not be a warrior, but even I know it. You take your own life with honor, not beg for it like a dog. You want another punishment? All right. I'll take you into the village square, for all to see, and execute you. Cleave off your head in front of your wife and children and parents, so they may--"
The guard didn't even need Barthol to finish. He thrust his dagger into his stomach and sliced it open. Ashyn fell back. Ronan's arm tightened around her and he kept whispering, "Look to the side, Ashyn. Look to the side," but even if she did, she could see the blood and smell it and hear the man, still alive, breathing hard and panicked as he died.
"Finish it," Ronan said to Barthol, his voice a growl. "Finish the ritual."
"Finish?" Barthol sounded confused.
"The killing blow," Ronan said between his teeth. "That is how it's done. As soon as he plunges in the blade, you cut off his head. Show him mercy."
Barthol screwed up his face. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Barthol turned to the others. "Have any of you heard that part?"