Dylara was first aware of a dull pain centering at the juncture of cheek and jaw. Half conscious, she put her fingers to the aching spot—and opened her eyes.
"How do you feel?" asked a man's deep voice.
Dylara, blinking in the strong sunlight, sat up. In front of her, squatted on his haunches before a small grass-fed fire, was a slender, wirily built man of uncertain age, his narrow hawk-like face creased in a thin-lipped smile as he squinted at her.
"I don't.... What—" Dylara began in a dazed voice.
The man fished a bit of scorched meat from the flames and bit off a mouthful. "The next time," he said thickly, "be careful whose face you scratch. Trokar doesn't make a habit of hitting girls, but you turned on him like a panther when he tried to keep you from running away. He'll carry the marks for a while!"
Memories flooded in on her. She saw the sun-dappled trail; saw Tharn rise from the body of Bana, only to go down under the cruel impact of a heavy club; saw the horde of oddly dressed men spring from concealment and rush toward her. She had turned to run, but a grinning warrior had intercepted her. And when she had raked her nails across his cheek, his good-humored expression had darkened—she remembered no more.
"But—but Tharn?" she cried. "Where is he? Did you—Is he—"
The man shrugged. "If you mean the man who was with you ... well, we intended only to stun him. There is need in Sephar for strong slaves. But the club that brought him down was thrown too hard."
"Then he is—dead?"
The hawk-faced one nodded.