"He's their god," rasped another, appraising Tyr with knowing eyes.
"No wonder," grunted the third, holstering his weapon. "A god such as he would find me among his worshippers! They'll never believe us on Rigel-7!"
"Do you yield?" asked the first.
They did not seem so frightening, close up. They were like Tyr. They were men, smaller than he, but men. He could kill them all, here and now, but—
He owned a desire to see more of these ardth. Perhaps he could reason with their commander, make some sort of compromise. He would do anything to save the Trylla. Fay and the others were safe. Let them go to the Barrow. He would know where to find them when he escaped from the ardth. And he would escape. There was no prison made that could hold Tyr.
He said slowly, "I yield. I will go with you."
Dully, despite all his hopes and plans, he knew himself a complete and total failure as a god.
Her hair was black as the tip of a raven's wing, parted in the middle, and drawn back over tiny ears. She had black eyes and a wide, crimson mouth that kept smiling at him, gently. She stood in the midst of the cloaked ardth-men who stared at him as they listened to the voices of the airmen who had captured him.
Tyr grew uncomfortable under her steady gaze. He shifted his feet, feeling silly, looming so big above the smaller pilots. He felt that they all were laughing at him. What a god he was! No wonder they laughed at him secretly. A god who was the protector of his race, allowing capture by three pilots he could have killed with three blows of his big hands.