Larry subsided, his head spinning. Where was he? What had happened? Where were Valdir, Kennard? Memory of the fight came rushing back. They had been outnumbered. Had the others, too, been taken prisoner? How long had he been unconscious? Where were they taking him? Cold fear gripped the boy; he was in the hands of Darkovan bandits, and he was alone and far from his own people, on a strange world whose people were hostile to Terra.
What would they do to him?
The jolting hoofbeats went on for what seemed hours before they slowed, stopped, and Larry was pulled roughly to the ground.
“A good prize,” said a voice, speaking the same harsh and barbarous dialect, “and earnest for good behavior from those sons of Zandru. The heir to Alton, no less—see the colors he wears?”
“I thought Alton’s son was older than this,” said another voice.
“He’s small for his years,” said the first voice, contemptuously, “but he bears the mark of the Comyn—hair of flame, and no commoner ever wore such clothes, or rode one of the Alton-bred horses.”
“Except when we come back from a raid,” guffawed another voice.
Larry went cold with fright. Was Kennard a prisoner too?
Rough hands pulled Larry forward again; the folds of muffling cloth were jerked away from his face, and someone pushed him forward. It was twilight, and it was raining a little, thin fine cold drops that made him shiver. He blinked, wishing he could get his bound hands to his head, and looked around.
They stood in the shadow of an ancient, ruined building, sharp-edged stones rising high around them. An icy wind was blowing. Larry’s captor shoved him forward.
There were a good dozen of the roughnecks in the lee of the ruin, but he saw no sign of Kennard, Valdir, or of any of his companions.
Before him stood a tall, strong man, cloaked in a soiled crimson mantle, much cut and torn. Under it was a dark leather vest and breeches which had once been finely cut and embroidered. The hood of the mantle was pushed back but the man’s face was invisible; a soft leather mask, cut to lie close to nose and cheeks, concealed all his features to the thin, cruel lips. He had six fingers on each hand. His voice was rough and husky, but he spoke the city dialect without the barbarous accent of the others.
“You are Kennard Alton-Comyn, son of Valdir?”
Larry looked around in dismay, but no one else was visible, and suddenly his mind flashed across the mistake they had made.
They thought he was Kennard Alton—they had taken him as a hostage—and he dared not even tell them they had made a mistake! What would they do to one of the alien Terrans?
The man’s words returned to him—An earnest of good behavior . . . the heir to Alton! That sounded as if they didn’t want to kill him—not right away, at least. But how could he keep them from discovering his Terran identity? What would Kennard do?
The masked man repeated his question, harshly. Larry let out his breath, slowly and tensely. What would Kennard do—or say?
He thought of Kennard’s arrogance, facing the street roughnecks a few weeks ago. He drew himself to his full height and said, clearly, slowly because he was searching for the right words and colloquial phrases, but it gave an effect of dignity, “Is it not courtesy in your land to declare the host’s name before asking the name of a—a guest?”
He knew he was playing for his life. He had watched the arrogance of the Darkovan aristocrats, and he sensed that their contempt for these bandits was as great as their hatred for them. He shrugged his cloak around his shoulders—thank God he had been wearing Darkovan clothes!—and stood unflinching before the man’s masked stare.
“As you wish,” the masked man said, his lips curling, “yet build no hope on courtesy, son of the Hali-imyn. I am called Cyrillon of the Forest Roads—and you are Kennard N’Caldir Alton-Comyn.”
Larry said, “Would it profit anything to deny it?”
“Very little.” Behind the mask, Larry felt Cyrillon’s eyes sharp on him.