Warrior of the Dawn

drew aside as Tharn approached, revealing the magnificent figure of their leader lying upon a great pile of furry pelts. Although the eyes were closed and the strong regular features bore evidence of suffering, Tharn's heart lost its burden when he saw the broad chest rising and falling evenly.

Seated on a small flat-topped boulder beside the bed was Old Myrdon, pressing juices from herbs in a stone bowl. Old Myrdon had brought back to health more wounded fighting men than he could remember; and his long familiarity with death and suffering had completely soured his naturally acid disposition.

The young man placed a hand on the forehead of the sleeping chief, gratified to find the skin cool and moist. He noticed the compress of herbs bound in place high up on his father's back, and knew, then, the spear had not touched a vital spot, that with proper care rapid recovery would follow.

He moved to Myrdon's side. "Take good care of him, Old One," he said quietly.

The healer jerked his