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"You sleep you do not fear, Foscar's dog-one?" Groggily Ross blinked up. Fear? Sure, he was afraid. Fear, he realized with a clear thrust of consciousness such as he had seldom experienced before, had always stalked beside him, slept in his bed. But he had never surrendered to it, and he would not now if he could help it. "I do not fear!" He threw that creed into Ennar's face in one hot boast.
But if he refused, Foscar might well order him killed out of hand. He had chosen to be defiant; he would have to do his best. "Take ax, knife " Foscar stepped back, waving at his men to open out a ring encircling the two young men. Ross felt a little sick as he watched Ennar's hand go to the haft of the ax.
Ennar's hand came away from the ax hilt as if that polished wood were white-hot, and he transferred his discomfiture to Ross as the other understood. Ennar had to win now for his own pride's sake, and Ross felt he had to win for his life. They circled warily, Ross watching his opponent's eyes rather than those half-closed hands held at waist level.
He knew that his arms were free, but to draw them down from over his head was almost more than he could do, and he lay quiet as Ennar loosed his feet. "Up!" Without Ennar's hands pulling at him, Ross could not have reached his feet. Nor did he stay erect once he had been raised, crashing forward on his face as the other let him go, hot anger eating at him because of his own helplessness.
He saw in the dim light Ennar's face and was savagely glad to note the discolorations about the right eye and along the jaw line, the signatures left by his own skinned knuckles. "Ho warrior!" Ross returned hoarsely, trying to lade that title with all the scorn he could summon. Ennar's hand, holding a knife, swung into his limited range of vision. "To clip a sharp tongue is a good thing!"
Having lost his opportunity, the man who had wielded the spear dashed by at Ennar's back. Ross clung to the mane with both hands. His greatest fear was that he might slip from the saddle pad and since he was tied by his feet, lie unprotected and helpless under those dashing hoofs. Somehow he managed to cling to the horse's neck, his face lashed by the rough mane while the animal pounded on.
Nothing had been said about Ennar's not using his weapons in defense, but Ross discovered that there was some sense of sportmanship in the tribesmen, after all. It was Tulka who pushed to the chief's side and said something which made Foscar roar bull-voiced at his youthful champion.
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