Katon fell silent. His two friends, their bows half drawn, arrow points held downward, stood relaxed, intently gauging the approach of the enemy, now a scant forty paces away.
An absolute silence had enveloped the entire amphitheater as every observer of this tense drama strained his eyes to catch the impending action.
Now Maltor, arrogant and impatient, stepped a pace or two in advance of his companions. Notching an arrow, he nodded over his shoulder to the others, who came up beside him. Three bows were raised in unison; the warriors aimed their shafts carefully, each at a different member of Katon's troupe. The human targets stood at ease, seemingly indifferent to their danger.
And then the scheme the wily Maltor had evolved was flashed on the enemy with a suddenness and brilliancy of execution that would have done much to settle the final outcome—had it succeeded.
A split second before the arrows were released, two of the three archers turned their aim toward the same target as that selected by Maltor. Immediately three bowstrings twanged as one, sending three flint-tipped shafts with incredible swiftness at a single mark.
To avoid one swiftly flying missile was difficult enough; to dodge three, so cunningly spaced that a move to either side would avail naught, was all but impossible. Yet in the flicker of time required for the arrows to reach him, Tharn had acted in the only manner possible to avoid impalement.
Flat on his face dropped the cave-man, the three bolts passing inches above his descending head to shatter against the stone wall beyond. As he fell, Katon and Rotark fired their first arrows.
One found a mark. A man screamed suddenly, horribly, and sank to the sand, a wooden shaft protruding from his abdomen. Rotark had followed instructions!
Had Katon's target been less agile there would have been two casualties. But the man managed to avoid that flashing point by a sideward lunge, keeping his balance with difficulty in the shifting sands.