Golden men caught him, carried him on their shoulders. They led him to a wall and chained his wrist to a red-hot manacle—
It was Ilse who held his wrist in her hand; Ilse bending above him, crystal tears quivering on her long amber lashes.
"Kortha! Thank Zut. You've lain so still."
He was in a bed. He grunted as he sat up. Ilse fought him, tried to force him down, saying, "The doctor said you had the constitution of a desert boar. What you went through would have killed ten ordinary men. But lie still, lie still. The wards are filled with the men you've wrecked—"
She laughed and sobbed, fighting him. But Kortha put her aside easily, asking, "Where is he? Where is the smell?"
"I am here, Kortha," said Guantra from the doorway where he stood, a gun steady in his hand.
The gun was aimed at Ilse. Kortha was a little too far away to jump, but the muscles on his legs and arms writhed like snakes with the fury that pounded in his blood.
Guantra was saying, "Stand away from him, Ilse. A bullet won't stop Kortha, but he won't risk your chances with hot lead."
"What do you want of me?" snarled the giant, mastering his red rage, fingers opening and closing.
"You will be my friend, Kortha. That is all I seek of you. Just your friendship."