Chapter fifteen
In the Fletcher’s Tower of the FalnagurTurko the Khamorro picked me up, twirled me around, and slammed me down on the mat.
He stood back, hands on hips, and laughed hugely.
“You’re getting soft, Dray Prescot! Your muscles are turning to water! Your resolution leaks away like the snows in spring!”
I pushed up, breathing hard, and glared.
“You are right, Turko, damned right. I am grown soft in these latter days. But, my friend—”
And I started after him.
A supreme example of perfection in musculature, Turko. He had a damned handsome face, too, bright and merry, knowing with a way that mocked and cut me down to size. The Khamorros, from the land of Herrell way down south in Havilfar, are famed and feared. It is whispered that they know secrets by which they may break and
