The young man placed a hand on the forehead of the sleeping chief, gratified to find the skin cool and moist. He noticed the compress of herbs bound in place high up on his father's back, and knew, then, the spear had not touched a vital spot, that with proper care rapid recovery would follow.
He moved to Myrdon's side. "Take good care of him, Old One," he said quietly.
The healer jerked his shoulder from under Tharn's hand. "I do not need advice from you," he growled, his wrinkled fingers grinding the rock pestle savagely against the bowl's contents. "If he lives it will be because I want him to live."
Tharn's grim expression did not change. "Take good care of him," he repeated evenly. "If he dies—you die!"
Startled, Myrdon raised his head. But Tharn had turned away and was striding toward the exit.
At the foot of the cliff he found Barkoo and Korgul and Torbat talking with a group of warriors. The son of the chief shouldered his way to the center. Darkness had come while he had been aloft and the only light came from two resinous flares.
In silence they looked at Tharn's set face. He was aware that they were regarding him strangely—almost expectantly. They seemed to sense that the carefree boy they had known was gone—replaced by a young warrior.
"Which way," demanded Tharn, "did they go?"
A tall, thin warrior with a bloody scratch across his forehead replied: "When they saw they could not gain the caves, they fell back. After they had disappeared among the trees, I followed for a time. Their path led into the south along the trail where we slew Pandor, the elephant, two suns ago."
Barkoo rubbed a hand thoughtfully across his smooth-scraped chin. "When Dyta comes again," he said, "we will start after them."