He heard how the attackers moved into the tent – angry cries, a noise which he realized had to be the table thrown over, and then several muffled noised he later figured had to be a disparagingly brief struggle.
He had to look. With considerable effort, he managed to work himself on his side, and he saw into his prince’s tent…
His prince had been overcome, nearly stripped as he was, forced to his knees. He hissed furious words, but was, to Than’s horror, interrupted with a sharp slap across his face. He looked up at the attacker… who surely had to be the leader of this silent, dauntless band, who effortlessly had penetrated into the innermost camp of their enemies, and seized the prince practically without a fight…
And instantly, he understood. That face. That terrible face, if you could still call it a face – he had never seen it, but the stories were all very graphic. And Than’s heart sank.

Kalla.


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