Blood dripped upon the clawed wooden floor from the full-fleshed body of the jiklo, and blood spattered from the whip as Nalgre lashed and lashed. For the first time I saw an expression other than bestial ferocity upon the face of a Manhound of Antares. For this female jiklo’s face twisted now in a grimace of anticipatory relish. Bartak may have seen that expression, too, for he stepped forward with a certain deadly intent. Nalgre the slave-master knew nothing of our presence, understood nothing of the sudden change in his pet, until he heard my voice. “No, dom,” I said loudly. “Do not kill the rast, at least, do not kill him yet.” Nalgre jumped around as though he trod upon a rattler. He saw us. He saw our weapons. He showed not the slightest fear. He had been long accustomed to taking prisoners and breaking slaves. His arrogance and self-importance grew long roots in his evil mind.
