From somewhere up ahead and to the right there began to come a
rhythmic, swinging clank of metal. Underneath it Ciaran made out the
shuffle of bare or sandalled feet.
The Kalds urged them on faster with the jewel-tipped wands. The hot
opalescence of the tips struck Ciaran all at once. A jewel-fire that
could shock a man to unconsciousness like the blow of a fist, just by
touching.
The power of the Stone, perhaps. The Stone of Destiny, sleeping under
Ben Beatha.
The shuffle and clank got louder. Quite suddenly they came to a place
where the gully met another one almost at right angles, and stopped.
The ears of the Kalds twitched nervously.
Mouse shrank in closer against Ciaran. She was looking off down the new
cut. Ciaran looked, too.
There were Kalds coming toward them. About forty of them, with wands.
Walking between their watchful lines were some ninety or a hundred
humans, men and women, shackled together by chains run through loops in
iron collars. They were so close together they had to lock-step, and
any attempt at attacking their guards would have meant the whole column
falling flat.
Mouse said, with vicious clarity, "One man falls into a beast pit, and
in three weeks of gossip a whole town is gone. Hah!"
Ciaran's scarred mouth got ugly. "Keep going, Mousie. Just keep it up."
He scowled at the slave gang and added, "But what the hell is it all
about? What do they want us for?"
"You'll find out," said Mouse. "You and your short cuts."
Ciaran raised his hand. Mouse ducked and started to swing on him. A
couple of Kalds moved in and touched them apart, very delicately, with
the wands. They didn't want knockouts this time. Just local numbness.
Ciaran was feeling murderous enough to start something anyway, but a
second flick of the wand on the back of his neck took the starch out of
him. By that time the slave party had come up and stopped.
Ciaran stumbled over into line and let the Kalds lock the collar around
his neck. The man in front of him was huge, with a mane of red hair
and cords of muscle on his back the size of Ciaran's arm. He hadn't a
stitch on but a leather G-string. His freckled, red-haired skin was
slippery with sweat. Ciaran, pressed up against him, shut his mouth
tight and began to breathe very hard with his face turned as far away
as he could get it.
They shackled Mouse right in back of him. She put her arms around his
waist, tighter than she really had to. Ciaran squeezed her hands.