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Updated: May 2, 2025
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.
He will be angry if I do not come. Let Foscar fear his anger " Ennar laughed. "You run from your chief. He will be happy with Foscar when you lie again under his hand. You will not like that I think it so!" "I think so, too," Ross agreed silently. He spent the rest of that night lying between the watchful Ennar and another guard, though they had the humanity not to bind him again.
"You take from Ennar ax, knife," Foscar ordered, "as you took from Tulka." He made a sign, and someone cut the thongs about Ross's wrists. Ross rubbed one numbed hand against the other, setting his jaw. Foscar had stung his young follower with that contemptuous "child," so the boy would be eager to match all his skill against the prisoner. This would not be as easy as his taking Tulka by surprise.
Ross glared up at him, that same hot rage which had led to his attack on Tulka now urging him to the only defiance he had left words. "Look well, Foscar. Free me, and I would do more than look at you," he said in the speech of the woods hunters.
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.
Ross watched that quiet withdrawal speculatively. It argued that Foscar did not trust those he was about to do business with, that he was taking certain precautions of his own. Only Ross could not see how that distrust, which might be only ordinary prudence on Foscar's part, could in any way be an advantage for him.
"I go to bitter water. My chief there." Tulka was scowling again. "You speak crooked words your chief there!" He pointed eastward with a dramatic stretch of the arm. "Your chief speak Foscar. Say he give much these " he touched his copper cuffs "good knives, axes get you back." Ross stared at him without understanding. Ashe? Ashe in this Foscar's camp offering a reward for him?
Foscar, his best weapons to hand and a red cloak lapped about him, lay waiting on a bier. Near-by squatted the tribal wizard, shaking his thunder rattle and chanting in a voice which approached a shriek. This wild activity might have been a scene lifted directly from some tape stored at the project base.
Then he gazed straight at Ross and came across the tiny clearing to stand over the man of a later time. The boyishness which had been a part of him when he had fought at Foscar's command was gone. His eyes were merciless as he leaned down to speak, shaping each word with slow care so that Ross could understand the promise that frightful promise: "Woods rat, Foscar goes to his burial fire.
Sensing a movement behind him, Ross wheeled about as one of the alien figures leaped the blazing drift, heedless of the flames, and ran light-footedly toward him in what could only be an all-out attempt at capture. The man had ready a weapon like the one that had felled Foscar. Ross threw himself at his opponent in a reckless dive, falling on him with a smashing impact.
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