The red armored man threw up a hand.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “Who are you three, you three who come driving down upon Ruszark through the rocks? We have no quarrel with you?”
“I seek a man and a maid,” cried Norhala. “A maid and a sick man your thieves took from me. Bring him forth!”
“Seek elsewhere for them then,” he answered. “They are not here. Turn now and seek elsewhere. Go quickly, lest I loose our might upon you and you go never.”
Mockingly rang her laughter—and under its lash the black eyes grew fiercer, the cruelty on the white face darkened.
“Little man whose words are so big! Fly who thunders! What are you called, little man?”
Her raillery bit deep—but its menace passed unheeded in the rage it called forth.
“I am Kulun,” shouted the man in scarlet armor. “Kulun, the son of Cherkis the Mighty, and captain of his hosts. Kulun—who will cast your skin under my mares in stall for them to trample and thrust your red flayed body upon a pole in the grain fields to frighten away the crows! Does that answer you?”
Her laughter ceased; her eyes dwelt upon him—filled with an infernal joy.
“The son of Cherkis!” I heard her murmur. “He has a son—”