over him. He swung up the ax, but it was a weapon with which he
had had no training, too heavy for him.

As his blow met only thin air the shoulder of the mount hit him, and
Ross went down, avoiding by less than a finger's breadth the thud of an
unshod hoof against his skull. Then the rider landed on him, crushing
him flat. A fist connected with his jaw, and for Ross the sun went out.

He found himself hanging across a support which moved with a rocking
gait, whose pounding hurt his head, keeping him half dazed. Ross tried
to move, but he realized that his arms were behind his back, fastened
wrist to wrist, and a warm weight centered in the small of his spine to
hold him face down on a horse. He could do nothing except endure the
discomfort as best he could and hope for a speedy end to the gallop.

Over his head passed the cackle of speech. He caught short glimpses of
another horse matching pace to the one that carried him. Then they swept
into a noisy place where the shouting of many men made a din. The horse
stopped and Ross was pulled from its back and dropped to the trodden
dust, to lie blinking up dizzily, trying to focus on the scene about
him.

They had arrived at the camp of the horsemen, whose hide tents served as
a backdrop for the fair long-haired giants and the tall women hovering
about to view the captive. The circle about him then broke, and men
stood aside for a newcomer. Ross had believed that his original captors
were physically imposing, but this one was their master. Lying on the
ground at the chieftain's feet, Ross felt like a small and helpless
child.

Foscar, if Foscar this was, could not yet have entered middle age, and
the muscles which moved along his arms and across his shoulders as he
leaned over to study Tulka's prize made him bear-strong. Ross glared up
at him, that same hot rage which had led to his attack on Tulka now
urging him to the only defiance he had left--words.

"Look well, Foscar. Free me, and I would do more than _look_ at you," he
said in the speech of the woods hunters.

Foscar's blue eyes widened and he lowered a fist which could have
swallowed in its grasp both of Ross's hands, linking those great fingers
in the stuff of the suit and drawing the captive to his feet, with no
sign that his act had required any effort. Even standing, Ross was a
good eight inches shorter than the chieftain. Yet he put up his chin and
eyed the other squarely, without giving ground.

"So-