A rustle of sound came from within. The door opened a crack.
Belligerently, Jarl shoved inside.
A hard object gouged his back.
By sheer reflex, he tried to leap aside, to whirl.
But rough hands seized him. A powerful arm jerked back his head, the wrist-bone jammed so hard against his throat that he choked and gasped for breath, his struggles unavailing. Close to his ear, a rough voice rasped, "Give up, you zanat, or I'll break your neck!"
Already the blackness was swimming with sparks and stars. Reeling, Jarl called a halt to battle.
"That's better!" the voice rasped. And then: "All right! We've got him! Let's have some light!"
The inner door opened. A yellow glare flooded the entryway. Staggering, arms locked behind him, Jarl was dragged into the room beyond.
Blinking, he stared into familiar faces ... the cold, hard-bitten faces of the chieftains of the raider fleet—Toran the Malya ... the mongrel, Tas Karrel ... Bor Legat of Mercury ... half-a-dozen others.
And there was another with them, not a warrior ... one whose dark, proud, lovely face was pale beneath its color.