“Where—where did you get that?” he stammered.
A look of triumph came over Gonch’s face. He opened his hand and held it palm upward so that all could see. There lay a superb flint-blade; large, well-formed and keen-edged. It was the finest stone weapon that the Castillans had ever seen.
“A marvelous flint,” said Gonch. “It was made by the Mammoth Man.”
Totan emitted an astonished grunt. His head may have been as dense as his muscles, but he could tell a fine blade when he saw one. Speech was a laborious process at best and now he could find no words to say.
“It was in the low country,” Gonch said, pointing eastward to the rock-strewn plains bordering the River Pas. “We found a man.”
He paused impressively. Not a sound broke the stillness. All held their breaths and waited in suspense for his next words.
“He was a strange man,” Gonch continued. “He lay upon his back. The flesh was wasted from his bones. He gave me this flint hoping thereby to escape death. I questioned him to learn how it came into his possession. He said that it was the work of the Mammoth Man.”
Totan began to find the use of his tongue.
“The Mammoth Man? Who is he?”
“Hetman of a far-off tribe,” Gonch replied. “Leader of skilled hunters who have prospered mightily because of him. He makes flints like this one and supplies them to his men.”