The Mink he couches underground,
Beneath the earth he lies;
He hears the fox's mournful yell,
And knows he must arise.
"Too many lads have hunted been,
Too many women slain!"
The Mink he takes his pick in hand
To end the gentry's reign.
—Ruck's Ballad of the Mink
The Lady Nirea thought a moment—she never attacked any new problem without thinking beforehand—and then she began to struggle. This rucker who had her over his shoulder, with a death-grip on her legs and her head hanging down his back, was plainly insane. No man of his low position was ever insane enough to actually harm a squire's daughter; so if she kicked and bit, he would either drop her or—
Well, it was the "or." He reached up and slapped her on the rear. Hard. She opened her eyes wide. No one had ever before dared to touch her there. She thought again, and bit him on the side.
He was carrying her up the rocks toward the mine now. Surely there would be a god-guard on duty there? She had often seen one in place at the entrance, as she rode through the valley. Yes, peering upside-down under his arm, she saw the golden glow. Then he was shifting her a little, setting his muscles, and—great Orbs! He struck the god full in the middle with his miner's pick. This man, this astounding brute with chocolate-colored hair and a body like a wild woods lion, had dared kill four gods in as many minutes. Perhaps she shouldn't be as certain of her inviolability as she'd been till now.
"You triple-damn fool," she said, making her voice husky so it wouldn't squeak, "the globes are watching."
"They always are." What a strong voice the beast had.
"They see you going into the mine. D'you think you're safe here?"