He paused in the throat of the narrow passage by which he had come, sent the hound in ahead of him, and turned to see if he was followed. He heard footsteps, and waited. In that narrow space, with Diana to guard his back, he felt he could protect himself with the tulwar against all-comers.
But it was only one man—Dawa Tsering—holding a cloth to his throat and walking unsteadily.
“Give me back my weapon, Ommonee!”
The words, spoken in Prakrit, were intelligible enough but gurgled, as if his throat was choked and hardly functioning. Diana tried to rush at him, but Ommony squeezed her to the wall and grabbed her collar.
“Down!” he ordered, and she crouched at his feet, growling.
“Aye, hold her! I have had enough of that incarnated devil. Give me my knife, Ommonee!”
“You call this butcher’s ax a knife? You rascal, it’s not a minute since you tried to kill me with it!”
“Aye, but that is nothing. I missed. If you were dead, you might complain. Give me the knife and be off!”
Ommony laughed. “You propose to have another crack at me, eh?”
“Not I! Those Lamas are a lousy gang! They told me I could come to no harm if I obeyed them and said my prayers! Their magic is useless. That she-devil of thine has torn my throat out! I doubt if I shall ever sing again. Give me the knife, and I will go back to the Hills. I wish I had never left Spiti!”