Sark's laughter died. He leaned forward, thick lips working. His fat face was a study in sadistic fury.
A hush fell over the crowd.
He cried: "So, chitzas! Now you die!"
The silence rolled like thunder.
Haral stood wordless. He could barely see Kyla, out of the tail of his eye.
She did not move. She did not speak. Only the way her breasts rose and fell too fast whispered of the conflict that churned within her.
Or was it exertion, sheer weariness, that made her breathe so hard?
Now, savagely, Sark turned on the blue man.
"You, warrior!" He spat, and his face contorted. "Warrior? I'll teach you to call yourself a warrior, starbo! You talked bold, you zanat, when you rode in here with your hwalon and your armor and your light-lance. But there's kabat in your veins instead of blood. Now you'll learn to crawl, and beg for death!"
Haral stood very still. A haze seemed to hang over the leering crowd, the blood and dirt, the yellow sky.