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I have come a long way to see this Nalgre.
Bartak looked at me with some puzzlement. We stood for the space of a few heartbeats watching
Nalgre as he abused the female jiklo. She was a fine well-grown specimen, savage, evil of eye, and
pregnant. Whether Nalgre either noticed or cared I did not know. I fancied that if he did know he would
not have cared.
His whip cracked against her side.
She yowled and jangled the chains in her desperation to get away from that cruel lash, and Nalgre
laughed and swore at her and kicked her viciously.
I ll teach you manners, you four-legged shishi! I ll show you your master, by Havil! You ll scream for
mercy, aye, and you ll like it, and lick my boots! The whip smashed full upon her back, beating down
her crest of matted blonde hair. Red weals stood out vividly all over her body. Again Nalgre kicked her.
She hissed and screeched. She saw us. Jiklos are apim that is, they were apim before they were thus
transmogrified into manhounds and still have the power of speech, no matter that they speak with a
breathiness very dreadful to hear.
The female jiklo saw us, she saw the weapons in our hands, she saw that we were naked and therefore
slaves, but she did not cry out to her master that men had come to slay him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Have you turned weakling, Dray Prescot?
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. He swore vilely and shouted and jumped
forward.
Get back to your stinking caves, you yetches! Back, slaves; crawl away before I have you punished!
He leaped for us, whirling the whip in readiness to slash at our naked hides, as he was used to doing.
Ho! Guards! Drag these nulshes away! To the flogging frames! Guards!
Bartak, halted by my order not to kill Nalgre, turned to look with some astonishment at me, the spear
still held ready for the lethal, stabbing thrust. Nalgre s whip looped about his body, leaving a red line
upon his black bristles and making him start and yelp.
What do you mean, do not kill him? Have you turned weakling, Dray Prescot?
No, Bartak, I said, taking the whip and jerking it in. I have a few questions for the cramph; that is all.
I reeled Nalgre in and, I admit with a shame I cannot defend, for all it appeared reasonable at the time,
struck him upon the nose. He dropped the whip. He yelled again, but this time the yells were of a
different caliber.
That ll teach you to whip a pregnant female, I said.
He tried to hold his nose, but I had, as my contemporaries on the Downs would have said, tapped his
claret. His hands dripped blood. This time it was his own.
The jiklo snarled and hissed.
Well, Dray Prescot, ask him the questions and then I will thrust this spear into his guts.
The jiklo snarled.
I looked at her.
You are safe now, manhound. He will not hurt you again. Half turning my head I said to Bartak, Hold
the rast.
I approached the jiklo. She stood, trembling, suddenly still, those vicious jagged fangs revealed as her
lips peeled back. I bent toward her.
If I unchain you, so that you may escape from this Nalgre yetch, will you harm us?
I could see the unreality of the situation. But I wanted to talk to Nalgre without a manhound chained to
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