Gripping Jarl's arm, he led him from the hall. "I cannot expect your pardon, Jarl Corvett. It would be too much to ask from any raider, any man. But in their day, my ancestors roved the void...."
His voice trailed off. Turning to the guards, he said, "Take him to his cell. I'll see that one of the fleet ktars comes on down."
Weak, tottering, Jarl let them lead him back to the old, thick-walled wing they had given over to the prisoners. He had not even the strength to curse when the guard, a Martian fala with all his race's fiendish love of cruelty, tripped him skillfully, so that he sprawled on his face as he crossed the threshold to the room that was his cell.
The door clanged shut on the Martian's ghoulish laugh. Sick with pain, Jarl dragged himself up and crawled to the bunk. Belly-down, he sagged onto the springless frame.
How long he lay there he never knew. It was all he could do to breathe, to be. The room about him was a reeling, distorted world of mists and feverish dreams.
Then, at last, that, too, passed. Wearily, he pulled himself upright and shook out his wadded tunic.
Metal clanged on the floor.
Jarl stiffened in spite of his wounds. Swiftly, he bent and felt beneath the bunk.
His hand touched metal. It was a knife ... a keen, long-bladed telonium fighting skrii.