by John Norman
I heard the sleen scratching at the ice. Ram coughed. The red hunters set their snittened hands to the uprights on their sleds.
“Be silent, Slave,” I said, pushing her from me.
“Yes, Master,” she said. She stumbled back, the double coffle line on her neck.
I turned about, to look once more behind me. It is a trick of red hunters, to see what the return journey will look like. But I did not think I would come this way again.
I saw the ice of the polar sea, and the stars, and the feasting house, within which Imnak sang.
Then I turned about and lifted my arm. To my left, in the east, was the first, tiniest glimmering of light, a dawn that would begin the long day of the arctic spring and summer. The night was over.
I lowered my arm. “On!” I said. “On!” The eight sleds left the area of the camp. I moved behind the sled. The girls, behind the sled, and to its left, moved with me.
Our departure was not noticed.
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