**** 
      “The torch,” barked Malag. “Where is the torch that we left by the entrance? Where are the guards?”
      “A torch, comrades!” his men echoed to their unseen friends. “Light a torch in the entrance so we may find our way.”
      A torch sputtered and was placed in its socket at the entrance to the tunnel where the portal had withdrawn into the cliff-face. The ember cast its feeble light across glittering walls and stamped earth. Reflected in its pale glow stood one man, down-turned sword grasped firmly before him, bodies strewn awkwardly about his feet, their eyes still, their limbs unmoving. His unsmiling face shone red; his stance blocked the slavers' path into the fortress.
      The slavers halted in surprise. Malag released his burden, and, still gripping one delicate wrist, the slave-driver thrust Amina into leafy undergrowth where she remained in shadow, her gaze averted, her free hand drawing the fur more tightly about her shoulders. Still uncertain as to whether the figure before them was friend or enemy, Malag peered more closely. His brows furrowed as he noted the unwashed clothing, the lack of noble headgear, the common sandals, the dagger belted in the style of a poor man, and the unkempt beard of one of the pedestrian class. The intruder wore neither the skirt nor the leatherwork of a slaver. Malag felt anger rise within—the slaughtered bore the bandoleers and baldrics of his comrades. The slave-driver spoke, making no effort to disguise his contempt, but apprehensive lest more intruders lie hidden in the darkness.
      “Aside!” Malag said. “You have no business here.”
      As if chiseled in stone the intruder made no move.
      Malag grimaced. “Speak, man! What do you here? You are not of Tumset, and you do not work for me. By what right do you interfere in my affairs?”
      The man said nothing, but fingered the butt of his sword.
      “I warn you. Only once more shall I ask. Who are you; and from where do you hail?”
      A moment passed.
      “A stranger.”
      The slaver's lips twisted with sarcasm. “Nothing more? You have no name?”
      The intruder lowered his eyes until they rested on a ring upon one finger. The ring bore the sign of the Turlicum. He glanced up again. “You need not know it.”
      Malag's eyes narrowed. Again he took in the common raiment and style of the intruder. Stepping back, he turned to his men. “Cut this dog to pieces. Then scatter them throughout the valley!”
      Without hesitation, the two axe-wielders leapt forward. . .
      ****

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