Such a little thing, that recognition. Yet again, Jarl felt his tension lift a fraction. He smiled a thin, wry smile and waited.
But now, to one side of the stage-like platform on which he and his escort party stood, there was a sudden stir of motion. A new door opened in what had been a bulkhead barring the way to another part of the ancient, fallen ship.
A cry went up from the seething multitude. The mass of primitives surged forward, close against the platform.
Slowly, creaking and groaning, a great stone slab was wheeled forth. Its sides were deep-graven with carved figures ... strange, hideous figures that writhed in ecstasy and anguish. Stains smudged its upper surface. Heavy metal clamps, long age-corroded, were set into each corner.
With a sickening jolt, it came to Jarl that it was an altar.
Straining and grunting, a crew of primitives tugged it into position in the platform's center.
Jarl's captors gripped his arms.
The panting group by the altar straightened and hurried back through the door in the bulkhead. Rattling sounds came forth. A moment later, the primitives reappeared, rolling out a monstrous, shining metal tub on wheels, big as one of the kettledrums of the spider men of Rhea. Its sides were graven with the same contorted figures as the altar.
The din of the crowd swelled louder. Masked primitives leaped and screamed in impassioned frenzy.
Tight-jawed, Jarl waited.