"What will they do with us, Tharn?" whispered the youth.
Those broad shoulders moved in a faint shrug. "Who knows?"
It was far from being a satisfactory answer. Trakor was silent for a little while, thinking unhappy thoughts. Through the hut's thin walls came the shrill, unfamiliar chattering of many voices. Evidently the spider-men were holding some kind of a meeting—a meeting, Trakor was sure, concerning the eventual fate of their captives.
"Tharn...."
"Yes?"
"Can't we do something? Must we lie here like two helpless old men until they get around to k-killing us?"
Tharn caught the slight break in the youth's words and his slow smile disclosed flashing teeth. "They will not kill us for a while—otherwise we would have been dead before this. Perhaps they intend to torture us first—either to enjoy our suffering or to honor their tribal god."
"But now we can do nothing. Four of them are watching our every move through chinks in these walls; our first move toward escape would bring them upon us."
Trakor's eyes roved about the hut's sides. He could see no signs of gleaming eyes peering in on them, but long ago he had learned never to doubt Tharn's ability to know things beyond the evident.
His voice went down. "Can they hear us?"