“We have found her,” said the man who held Ellen’s improvised leash. He mounted into the saddle of his beast, and looped the free end of the leash loosely about the pommel of the saddle.
“Take her a bit away, away from the wagon, over the hillock,” said one of the men.
“Why?” asked Mirus.
“Before it is done,” said the man.
“What are you talking about?” said Mirus.
“You let her go once,” said another of the riders. “We will not make that mistake again.”
“I want her,” said Mirus.
“We will buy you another,” said one of the men.
One of the shaggy beasts growled.
“Soon, soon,” said one of the men, soothingly, he whose office it seemed to be to interpret the noises of the beasts.
“Run her for the sleen,” suggested one of the men.
“That would be amusing,” said another.
“No,” said the fellow who seemed to translate for the shambling monsters amongst them. “Kardok is hungry.”
“The sleen may feed secondly,” said a fellow, “should there be anything left.”
“Why?” demanded Mirus.
“She has seen too much, she has heard too much,” said one of the men.
“She has understood nothing,” said Mirus.
“It will be hard to control the sleen,” said the fellow who had suggested running the slave. “They have hunted. They have tracked for days. Now they are successful. They will expect their reward.”
Even as he spoke the two hunting sleen inched forward, tails lashing, haunches trembling.
“Such beasts are not patient,” said the man, apprehensively. “They are dangerous.”
Ellen drew back, against the rope, her legs almost giving way beneath her, almost fainting.
“Have you meat with you?” cried Mirus to Portus Canio.
“No,” said Portus Canio.
“The tharlarion!” said Mirus.
“Neither sleen nor our friends care muchly for tharlarion,” said one of the men.
“There is better feed about,” laughed another.
“No!” said Mirus.
“It is not a question of meat,” snarled one of his companions.
The beast called Kardok, the largest of the five monstrous creatures, looked toward the wagon and Portus Canio, and the others. There were sounds from it, guttural emanations, yet somehow half articulate, suggesting Gorean, or surrogates for its phonemes.
The fellow who translated laughed. “Kardok observes,” said he, “that there is much meat here.”
“They are armed,” said another.
“Put down the bows, sheath your weapons,” said one of Mirus’s companions, one mounted to his left, regarding the men of Portus Canio. “And you will not be hurt.”
“Leave the slave, and be on your way,” said Portus Canio.
“We are all armed, and can dart lightning upon you,” said he who had spoken.
“Who will be first to reach for the lightning knife?” asked Portus Canio.
Two crossbows were set, fingers upon the triggers.
The companions of Mirus looked at one another. Only Mirus held his weapon, and he then, with obvious show, thrust it in his belt.
Kardok’s eyes blazed as he looked from the face of one of Portus Canio’s men to that of another. His gaze lingered last, and longest, on that of Selius Arconious. Then, without removing his gaze from that of Selius Arconious, whom he seemed to somehow sense might be the most dangerous, or the most desperate, or the most irrational, or the first to act, he uttered a succession of soft, low, almost gentle, growling noises.
“Forgive us, dear travelers,” said the translator, regarding the men at the wagon. “We will give you the slave.” He made a gesture and the fellow who had Ellen’s neck rope, the improvised leash, looped about the pommel of the saddle loosened it, and tossed it, grinning, to the grass near her ankles. She sank to her knees, trembling. “We shall be on our way. We leave you in peace. Have a good journey. We wish you well.”
“What of your sleen?” inquired Portus Canio.
“We will shortly set them to hunt in the grasslands,” said the man. “There is no danger. They will forage well enough for themselves.”
“I think they are domesticated sleen, trained hunting sleen,” said Portus Canio.
“We wish you well,” said the man.
Ellen looked wildly at Selius Arconious.
Selius Arconious suddenly, wildly, pointed to the sky, far, high, away, behind the riders. “Tarnsmen!” he cried. “Tarnsmen!”
What happened then was scarcely clear to Ellen. The men, those mounted or not, those with Mirus, and those near the wagon, naturally, without much thinking of it, followed Arconious’s gesture, turning, raising their eyes.
“Where?” shouted one of the riders.
But Arconious in that moment, unnoted, the others distracted, had hurled himself forward, through the midst of the riders, and laid powerful, rough hands on he who was the translator for the beast, doubtless in the belief that he was first amongst the riders. And in that sudden, confused moment the startled, angry rider had been dragged from the saddle, struck half senseless, and dragged backward, stumbling, groggy, his body shielding that of Arconious, toward the wagon. By the time the riders in that chaotic moment were apprised of the cry of their fellow, and turned from their brief, agitated, intent scanning of the empty sky, Arconious was four or five feet from them, backing away, moving toward the wagon. He stopped there, some feet before the wagon, the blade of his dagger at the throat of the dazed, disconcerted fellow he held. The man’s hand moved toward his holstered weapon, but then he lifted it, and held it away from the holster, as the edge of the blade tightened at his throat.
Hands of the riders moved toward their weapons, but they did not draw them. The two crossbowmen at the wagon, their bodies muchly behind the wagon, shielded there, the quarrels at the ready, tensed. Each had his target.
“If you would have your captain live,” cried Arconious, “throw down your weapons, and be on your way!”