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.
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