The constant crooning wail of
the women in the tents produced a minor murmur of sound, enough to drive
a man to the edge of madness. Ross had been left under guard where he
could watch it all, a refinement of torture which he would earlier have
believed too subtle for Ennar. Though the older men carried minor
commands among the horsemen, because Ennar was the closest of blood kin
among the adult males, he was in charge of the coming ceremony.
The pick of the horse herd, a roan stallion, was brought in to be
picketed near Ross as sacrifice number two, and two of the hounds were
in turn leashed close by. Foscar, his best weapons to hand and a red
cloak lapped about him, lay waiting on a bier. Near-by squatted the
tribal wizard, shaking his thunder rattle and chanting in a voice which
approached a shriek. This wild activity might have been a scene lifted
directly from some tape stored at the project base. It was very
difficult for Ross to remember that this was reality, that he was to be
one of the main actors in the coming event, with no timely aid from
Operation Retrograde to snatch him to safety.
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