Recklessly, then, he laughed aloud. With a twist and a jerk, he tore free from the grasp of the raider crewmen and strode forward.
He could see Sark's web-fingered hand knot convulsively on the cymosynthesizer switch.
He laughed again, and made his voice ring: "Bring on your torture, stabats! I'll show you how a warrior dies!"
A spasm of rage shook Sark's gross body. His face grew purple as Ulna's peaks. "You chitza—!" His voice rose crazily, shrilly. "Throw him in the ring! Let the beetles tear his flesh from his bones! Stake him out and let them feast upon him before he dies!"
A clacking of mandibles rose, a hideous, castaneting rattle. A thousand protuberant, multi-faceted insectile eyes drew into focus.
In spite of himself, Haral felt the hair on his nape go stiff.
The crewmen moved in to seize him.
"Die with this thought, you fool!" Sark shouted. "Xaymar has pledged herself to share her secret with me! I'll have the lightning for my weapon! Die thinking of me with the universe in my power, Haral! Die! Die—"
And then, for the first time, Xaymar spoke: "No, Sark." Her tone was flat, decisive, final.