"Your mate?"
"Yes. She was taken by your men three suns ago not far from here."
Urim looked questioningly at Vulcar. "He must mean the girl you brought in a few days ago. I understood the man with her had been slain."
"This is the one," admitted Vulcar. "There is an arrow wound—a fresh one—in his side. When we took the girl, the man with her was struck by an arrow. But we thought he had died from a blow from one of our clubs; it seems impossible that he has survived its force."
For several minutes the ruler of Sephar sat lost in thought, his eyes on the giant Cro-Magnon. This wild man's fate was in his hands, and his alone. As a slave the man would make an excellent guard or warrior—that is, were he tractable, amenable to discipline. Yet something warned him this man would recognize no authority or law beyond his own. Such a slave would only stir up unrest, perhaps open rebellion among his fellows.
And so Urim made his decision.
"Confine him to the pits, Vulcar," he commanded in dismissal. "He is to take part in the Games."
Vulcar led them out. A few moments later the two prisoners were standing within the mammoth dungeon, watching silently as the great door swung shut, hearing the heavy bars fall into place.
Hardly had Tharn left the throne-room when Dylara and Nada entered, accompanied by two guards.