None of them had all their limbs intact. Some were completely limbless, being little more than bloodied sacks of meat and bone slumped on the ground.
Flies the size of my thumb buzzed in broad, droning clouds, landing on open wounds, and crawling across the staring eyes of the victims.
The air stank of rot, decay, iron, and the sour reek of sweat caused by fear.
This was a torture facility. A thoughtfully surreptitious one.
These people had been unfortunate enough to cross the Amazons; they were probably spies, saboteurs, failed negotiators, or possibly someone who might have been suspected of hiding Benjamin Mark.
And the Amazons had answered with merciless and calculated cruelty.
They were all being kept alive, I realized, not out of mercy, but politics.
The alliance of races still held, even if barely.
