-yet still my hands are tied." He put into that all the taunting
inflection he could summon. His reception by Tulka had given him one
faint clue to the character of these people; they might be brought to
acknowledge the worth of one who stood up to them.

"Child--" The fist shifted from its grip on the fabric covering Ross's
chest to his shoulder, and now under its compulsion Ross swayed back and
forth.

"Child?" From somewhere Ross raised that short laugh. "Ask Tulka. I be
no child, Foscar. Tulka's ax, Tulka's knife--they were in my hand. A
horse Tulka had to use to bring me down."

Foscar regarded him intently and then grinned. "Sharp tongue," he
commented. "Tulka lost knife--ax? So! Ennar," he called over his
shoulder, and one of the men stepped out a pace beyond his fellows.

He was shorter and much younger than his chief, with a boy's rangy
slimness and an open, good-looking face, his eyes bright on Foscar with
a kind of eager excitement. Like the other tribesmen he was armed with
belt dagger and ax, and since he wore two necklaces and both cuff
bracelets and upper armlets as did Foscar, Ross thought he must be a
relative of the older man.

"Child!" Foscar clapped his hand on Ross's shoulder and then withdrew
the hold. "Child!" He indicated Ennar, who reddened. "You take from
Ennar ax, knife," Foscar ordered, "as you took from Tulka." He made a
sign, and someone cut the thongs about Ross's wrists.

Ross rubbed one numbed hand against the other, setting his jaw. Foscar
had stung his young follower with that contemptuous "child," so the boy
would be eager to match all his skill against the prisoner. This would
not be as easy as his taking Tulka by surprise. But if he refused,
Foscar might well order him killed out of hand. He had chosen to be
defiant; he would have to do his best.

"Take--ax, knife--" Foscar stepped back, waving at his men to open out a
ring encircling the two young men.

Ross felt a little sick as he watched Ennar's hand go to the haft of the
ax. Nothing had been said about Ennar's not using his weapons in
defense, but Ross discovered that there was some sense of sportmanship
in the tribesmen, after all. It was Tulka who pushed to the chief's side
and said something which made Foscar roar bull-voiced at his youthful
champion.

Ennar's hand came away from the ax hilt as if that polished wood were
white-hot, and he transferred his discomfiture to Ross as the other
understood. Ennar had to w