The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fell back. "A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers," he rumbled. "But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth, Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments."
"How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help."
"Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here," said the old Fustian. "It would be your life."
"I doubt if they'd go that far."
"Would they not?" The Fustian stretched his neck. "Cast your light here. But for the toughness of my hide...."
Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear of thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, a sound like a seal coughing.
"Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Then they trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weapons to complete the task."
"Weapons? I thought it was illegal!"
"Their evil genius, the Soft One," said the Fustian. "He would provide fuel to the Devil himself."
"The Groaci again," said Retief. "I wonder what their angle is."