Chapter eighteen
On my own two feet, thenSome little Ullar with his silly blue-dyed hair was prancing and yammering on the sand before me, but I could not pay much attention to him, even when he jabbed a spear into my stomach, because I was looking and looking at Delia. She hung there in her bonds, roped to that blasphemous triangle of rough-bark wood. Her head was raised in defiance, her chin high, and her glorious brown hair shone radiantly with those outrageous auburn tints beneath the suns of Scorpio.
She saw me.
She did not scream out.
We looked at each other, Delia and I, we looked, and between us passed the knowledge that if we were to die now, at least, we died together.
The Ullar was shouting and his flint-headed spear was becoming decidedly uncomfortable.
I managed to fall
