The leader of the Swimmers said, “My people would not have it so.”
“Nor mine,” said the winged man.
“Nor mine!” Rold was on his feet now, flushed with anger. “You’re an outlander, Carse. Perhaps you don’t understand how things are with us!”
“No,” said Thorn of Tarak softly. “Give her back. She, that learned kindness at Garach’s knee, and drank wisdom from the teachers of Caer Dhu. Set her free again to mark others with her blessing as she marked me when she burned my longship.” His eyes burned into the Earthman. “Let her live—because the barbarian loves her.”
Carse stared at him. He knew vaguely that the Sea Kings tensed forward, watching him—the nine chiefs of war with the eyes of tigers, their hands already on their sword hilts. He knew that Ywain’s lips curved as though at some private jest. And he burst out laughing.
He roared with it. “Look you!” he cried, and turned his back so that they might see the scars of the lash. “Is that a love note Ywain has written on my hide? And if it were—it was no song of passion the Dhuvian was singing me when I slew him!”
He swung round again, hot with wine, flushed with the power he knew he had over them.
“Let any man of you say that again and I’ll take the head from his shoulders. Look at you. Great nidderlings, quarreling over a wench’s life. Why don’t you gather, all of you, and make an assault on Sark!”
There was a great clatter and scraping of feet as they rose, howling at him in their rage at his impudence, bearded chins thrust forward, knotty fists hammering on the board.
“What do you take yourself for, you pup of the sandhills?” Rold shouted. “Have you never heard of the Dhuvians and their weapons, who are Sark’s allies? How many Khonds do you think have died these long years past, trying to face those weapons?”