the Zelan …”
His progress was halted by a spear quivering in the ground at his feet.
“Any more good suggestions, Jondalar?”
“I think it’s their turn.”
One of the men said something in an unfamiliar language and two others sprang toward them. With the points of spears they were urged forward.
“You don’t have to get nasty, friend,” Thonolan said, feeling a sharp prick. “I was going that way when you stopped me.”
They were brought back to their own campfire and pushed down roughly in front of it. The one who had spoken before barked another command. Several men crawled into the tent and hauled everything out. The spears were taken from the backframes and the contents spilled on the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Thonolan shouted, starting to get up. He was reminded to sit, forcibly, and felt a trickle of blood running down his arm.
“Relax, Thonolan,” Jondalar warned. “They look angry. I don’t think they’re in a mood for objections.”
“Is this the way to treat Visitors? Don’t they understand rights of passage for those on a Journey?”
“You were the one who said it, Thonolan.”
“Said what?”
“You take your chances; that’s what a Journey is all about.”
“Thanks,” Thonolan said, reaching for the stinging cut on his arm and looking at his blood-smeared fingers. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”
The one who seemed to be the leader spat out a few more words and the two brothers were hauled to their feet, Thonolan, in his loincloth, was given only a cursory glance, but Jondalar was searched and his bone-handled flint knife was taken. A man reached for the pouch fastened to his belt, and Jondalar grabbed for it. The next instant he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and slumped to the ground.
He was stunned for only a short while, but when his head cleared, he found himself stretched out on the ground, staring into Thonolan’s worried gray eyes, his hands bound with thongs behind his back.
“You were the one who said it, Jondalar.”
“Said what?”
“They’re in no mood for objections.”
“Thanks,” Jondalar remarked with a grimace, suddenly aware of a bad headache. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”
“What do you suppose they’re going to do with us?”
“We’re still alive. If they were going to kill us, they’d have done it, wouldn’t they?”
“Maybe they’re saving us for something special.”
The two men lay on the ground, listening to voices and watching the strangers moving about their camp. They smelled food cooking and their stomachs growled. As the sun rose higher, the glaring heat made thirst a worse problem. As the afternoon wore on, Jondalar dozed, his lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. He woke with a start to shouts and commotion. Someone had arrived.
They were dragged to their feet, and gaped in amazement at a burly man striding toward them carrying a white-haired, wizened old woman on his back. He got down on allfours, and the woman was helped off her human steed, with obvious deference.
“Whoever she is, she must be pretty important,” Jondalar said. A bruising blow in his ribs silenced him.
She walked toward them leaning on a knobbed staff with a carved finial. Jondalar stared, sure he had never seen anyone so old in his life. She was child-size, shrunken with age, and the pink of her scalp could be seen through her thin white hair. Her face was so wrinkled that it hardly looked human, but her eyes were oddly out of place. He would have expected dull, rheumy, senile eyes in someone so old. But hers were bright with intelligence and crackled with authority. Jondalar was awed by the tiny woman, and a little fearful for Thonolan and himself. She would not have come unless it was very important.
She spoke in a voice cracked with age, yet surprisingly strong. The leader pointed at Jondalar, and she directed a question to him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t
His progress was halted by a spear quivering in the ground at his feet.
“Any more good suggestions, Jondalar?”
“I think it’s their turn.”
One of the men said something in an unfamiliar language and two others sprang toward them. With the points of spears they were urged forward.
“You don’t have to get nasty, friend,” Thonolan said, feeling a sharp prick. “I was going that way when you stopped me.”
They were brought back to their own campfire and pushed down roughly in front of it. The one who had spoken before barked another command. Several men crawled into the tent and hauled everything out. The spears were taken from the backframes and the contents spilled on the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Thonolan shouted, starting to get up. He was reminded to sit, forcibly, and felt a trickle of blood running down his arm.
“Relax, Thonolan,” Jondalar warned. “They look angry. I don’t think they’re in a mood for objections.”
“Is this the way to treat Visitors? Don’t they understand rights of passage for those on a Journey?”
“You were the one who said it, Thonolan.”
“Said what?”
“You take your chances; that’s what a Journey is all about.”
“Thanks,” Thonolan said, reaching for the stinging cut on his arm and looking at his blood-smeared fingers. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”
The one who seemed to be the leader spat out a few more words and the two brothers were hauled to their feet, Thonolan, in his loincloth, was given only a cursory glance, but Jondalar was searched and his bone-handled flint knife was taken. A man reached for the pouch fastened to his belt, and Jondalar grabbed for it. The next instant he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and slumped to the ground.
He was stunned for only a short while, but when his head cleared, he found himself stretched out on the ground, staring into Thonolan’s worried gray eyes, his hands bound with thongs behind his back.
“You were the one who said it, Jondalar.”
“Said what?”
“They’re in no mood for objections.”
“Thanks,” Jondalar remarked with a grimace, suddenly aware of a bad headache. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”
“What do you suppose they’re going to do with us?”
“We’re still alive. If they were going to kill us, they’d have done it, wouldn’t they?”
“Maybe they’re saving us for something special.”
The two men lay on the ground, listening to voices and watching the strangers moving about their camp. They smelled food cooking and their stomachs growled. As the sun rose higher, the glaring heat made thirst a worse problem. As the afternoon wore on, Jondalar dozed, his lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. He woke with a start to shouts and commotion. Someone had arrived.
They were dragged to their feet, and gaped in amazement at a burly man striding toward them carrying a white-haired, wizened old woman on his back. He got down on allfours, and the woman was helped off her human steed, with obvious deference.
“Whoever she is, she must be pretty important,” Jondalar said. A bruising blow in his ribs silenced him.
She walked toward them leaning on a knobbed staff with a carved finial. Jondalar stared, sure he had never seen anyone so old in his life. She was child-size, shrunken with age, and the pink of her scalp could be seen through her thin white hair. Her face was so wrinkled that it hardly looked human, but her eyes were oddly out of place. He would have expected dull, rheumy, senile eyes in someone so old. But hers were bright with intelligence and crackled with authority. Jondalar was awed by the tiny woman, and a little fearful for Thonolan and himself. She would not have come unless it was very important.
She spoke in a voice cracked with age, yet surprisingly strong. The leader pointed at Jondalar, and she directed a question to him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t
Similar Books
