The Katakis stalked, strutting in heavy boots, flicking their whips and flicking their tails at the coffle of slaves who staggered, struggling on, naked and chained.
Seg counted the Katakis. Twenty of the diffs, twenty fierce, voracious, unpleasant and highly lethal slavers, twenty packets of sudden death. Flared of nostrils, the Katakis, low of frowning forehead, with black hair wild and tangled, with jagged teeth and hungry jaws. They were half-armored and carried spears and swords and bows. They urged on the slaves, who were of many races, without mercy, shouting the ugly word to force on dead-tired muscles and aching limbs.
“Grak, you yetches! Grak!”
Seg thought of Milsi. He thought, also, of Diomb and Bamba. Well, he could shaft half a dozen and then they’d be on him and slay him.
