The VIRGIN of VALKARION

The sun was low in the west and a thin chill wind was blowing along the hills when Alfric saw Valkarion below him. He reined in his hengist and sat for a moment scouting the terrain with the hard-learned caution of many wandering years.

Save for himself, the broad highway that flung its time-raddled length down the rock slope was empty. On either hand, the harsh gullied hills stretched away to the dusky horizon, wind whispering in gray scrub and low twisted trees. Here and there, evening fires glimmered red from peasants' huts, or the broken columns of temples in ruins these many thousand years loomed against the darkening greenish-blue. Behind him, the land faded toward the raw naked desert from which he had come. A falkh hovered on silent wings far above him, watching for a movement that might mean prey—otherwise he was alone.

Still—he felt uneasy. A prickling not due to the gathering cold tingled along his spine, and he had spent too much of his life in the nearness of death to ignore such warnings.

He looked ahead, down the great road. It twisted and swooped between the fantastically wind-carven crags, a dim white ribbon in the deepening twilight. The smooth stone blocks were cracked apart by ages so long that the thought made his head reel, and in places the harsh wiry vegetation had grown through and over it, but still the old Imperial Way was there. The ancients had built mightily.

Halfway down the huge slope of hillside, the road ran into Valkarion city. Below that level, the cliffs dropped sharply, white with old salt-streaks, to the dead sea-bottoms—a vast depression, sand and salt and thin bitter plant-growth, reaching out to the sunset horizon.

Lights were winking on in the city. It was not far, and Alfric had no wish to sleep in the open or under some peasant's stinking roof. So—why not go ahead? The city, his goal, was there, and naught to hold him from it save—

The hengist whickered and stamped its broad cloven hoofs. Its eyes rolled uneasily, and Alfric's hand slid to his sword hilt. If the beast also sensed a watchfulness—

He caught the stir in the thick brush-clump out of the corner of one eye. Only a hunter would have noticed it; only a rover at once, without stopping to think, would have struck spurs into his mount. The hengist leaped, and the dart whispered past Alfric's face.

One scratch from the poisoned missile of the southern blowguns was enough to kill a man. Alfric yelled, and flung his hengist at the brush. The sword whined from its scabbard, flamed in his hand.

Two men slipped from the thicket as he crashed into it. They were of a race foreign even to these southlands, small and lithe and amber-skinned. They wore only loincloths; all hair had been shaved from their heads and bodies, and the iron slave-collars were about their necks. Vaguely, Alfric was aware of the brands on their foreheads, but at the moment he was only concerned with their weapons.

One skipped aside, raising the blowgun to his lips. Alfric yanked the javelin from its holster by his saddle and launched it left-handed—through the slave's belly and out his back.

Steel hissed beside him as the other swung with a scimitar. The hengist screamed as the blade cut its sleek gray hide. The forehoofs lashed out, the great hooked beak snapped, and the slave lay a bloody ruin on the Imperial Way.

Alfric reined in his prancing mount and looked around, breathing hard. An ambush—by the bear of Ruho, they'd meant to kill him!

But—why?

A poor solitary wanderer was no worthwhile quarry for footpads—anyway, these weren't outlaws but slaves; they must have been set here with orders to destroy some specific person. But no one in Valkarion knew Alfric—he was a stranger without friend or enemy.

Had they mistaken him for someone else? That would be hard to do even in this dim light; he was too plainly a barbarian outlander. It made no sense. By Luigur, it made no sense!

He leaned over, studying the dead men. They were secretive even in the sprawled puppet-like helplessness of death; he could learn nothing. Except—hold, what was that owner's brand—

A double crescent.

The double crescent!

The knowledge shocked home like a spear-thrust, and Alfric sat silent for a long moment with the wind ruffling his night-black hair. The double crescent—the sign of the Two Moons—that meant the slaves were Temple property. They'd been under orders of the priesthood of the Moons, which was the old Imperial faith and still the state religion of Valkarion.

But if the Temple sent out assassins—

Alfric's eyes traveled up to Amaris, the farther moon, high in the darkening heavens. The nearer one, Dannos, had not yet risen—out of the west, as was its strange wont—but its rocket-like speed would carry it up to and beyond the farther before dawn.

Aye—aye, now he remembered that tonight the moons would mate. On such nights the Temple no doubt had great ceremonies afoot; perhaps this matter of the assassination was involved in some religious proceeding.

Whispered legend and the moldering history books alike agreed that the turning points of the old Empire's fate had come on nights when the moons mated. No doubt that still held good for the withered remnant of territory which Valkarion still ruled.

The moons were not important in the religion of the Aslakan barbarians, whose chief gods were the wind and the stars and nameless powers of winter and death. But a tingle of fear ran along Alfric's spine at the thought of what might be abroad that night.

To Luigur with it! His lean face twisted in a snarl, and he snapped sword and javelin back in place and rode trotting on toward Valkarion. Come ambush or priesthood or the Moons themselves, he meant to sleep in the city tonight.

Behind him, the hovering falkh wheeled down toward the two still forms sprawled on the highway.

The sun slipped into the dead sea-bottom, and night came with a silent rush. Amaris rode high in a froth of stars, painting the hills with a dim eerie silver in which monstrous shadows lurked. The wind blew stronger, colder, with a faint smell of salt like the ghost of the long-dried ocean. Alfric wrapped his worn cloak tighter about him against its searching chill. Save for the vast echoing howl of the wind, the hiss of sand and rustle of leaves, he was alone in the dark. He heard the creak and jingle of his harness, the rapid clopclop of the hengist's hoofs, against a background of hooting night.

The crumbling city walls loomed darkly before him, rearing enormously against the myriad brilliant, unwinking stars. He had half expected to find the gates closed, but instead a fire blazed in the tunnel which the gateway made through the walls. A dozen city guards stood about it.

They sprang to alertness as he rode up, a sudden wall of spears leaning forth in front of him. Behind that shining steel, the light picked out helmets and corselets and faces drawn tight with strain.

"Who goes?" called one. His voice shook a little.

"A stranger, but a friend," said Alfric in his north-accented Valkariona.

He rode into the circle of firelight and sat in a watchful quiet as their eyes raked him. Plainly he was an outland barbarian—taller by a head than most of the southerners, his hard-thewed body clad in the plain leather and ring-mail of a northern warrior, his sword a double-edged claymore rather than the scimitar or shortsword of the south. His skin was a sunburned leathery brown where theirs was tawny, his long slant eyes a brilliant green where theirs were dark, and there were jeweled rings in his pointed ears. He went cleanshaven in accordance with southern custom, but the high cheekbones, thin straight nose, and long jaw were not theirs.

"Who are you, stranger," demanded the guard captain, "and what is your errand?"

"I am Alfric, Beodan's son, of Aslak," he answered truthfully enough, "and am simply wandering about in search of employment. Perhaps Valkarion could use another sword-arm, or some merchant may want a good warrior to help guard his caravan, or—" he spread his calloused hands in a general gesture. No need to add that perhaps some highwayman was in town recruiting or some would-be rebel was in search of an experienced war-captain who would help for the loot. In his years of adventuring, Alfric had held most jobs, lawful or otherwise.

The guards seemed more taut and wary than the occasion warranted. Surely they had passed stranger and more dubious visitors than a single barbarian. Perhaps they wanted a bribe to let him by, or—

The captain nodded stiffly. "You may enter, since you are alone," he said; and then, with a friendliness not quite natural: "If you wish good cheap lodging, and a place where men come who might want to hire a fighter, try the Falkh and Firedrake. First turn to your right, three streets down, one to your left. Good luck, stranger."

Alfric scowled. For a moment he paused, tensing. There was something here—To Luigur with it. His nerves were still on edge from the fight. If something was supposed to happen, let it.

"Thanks," he said, and rode into the city.

It was like most of the old Imperial towns—somewhat larger and busier than the rest, no more. On either side of the broad paved street rose the ancient, columned facades of the Empire, proud building even now when their treasures were long gone and their corners worn smooth by the winds of millennia. There were lamps lighting the main ways, their yellow glow splashing on a milling throng of folk.

Most were native Valkarionas—merchants in their flowing cloaks and fur-trimmed silken robes, workers and artisans in tunics of blue or gray, peasants in clumsy homespun garments and fur caps, swaggering young soldiers in red tunics and polished metal, painted harlots, ragged beggars, near-naked slaves, the others of a city where life still pulsed strong though the days of glory were more thousands of years behind than it was pleasant to count. But there were strangers—robed traders from Tsungchi and Begh Sarrah riding their humped dromads, black-skinned men of Suda and Astrak, coppery feather-cloaked mercenaries from Tollaciuatl, fair-haired barbarians from Valmannstad and the Marskan hills—all the world seemed met at Valkarion, in a babble of tongues and a swirl of colors.

There were many of the tonsured priests of the Moons abroad in long red and black robes with the double crescent hanging from a silver chain about the neck. After each shaven-pate padded one or more of the yellow slaves, silent and watchful, hand on knife or blowgun. Alfric scowled, and decided he had best find lodging before venturing out into such company. A trading center like Valkarion necessarily tolerated all creeds—still, someone had tried to kill him—

He edged out of the throng and followed the captain's directions. They brought him into an unsavory part of town, where moldering blank-walled houses crowded a winding labyrinth of narrow, unlighted streets and stinking alleys. Men of dubious aspect moved furtively through the shadowy maze, or brawled drunkenly before the tawdry inns and bawdy houses. Strange place for a city guardsman to direct him to—

But no priests or soldiers were in sight, which was recommendation enough. Alfric rode on until he saw the sign of the Falkh and Firedrake creaking in the chill gusty wind above a gloomy doorway.

He dismounted and knocked, one hand on his dagger. The door groaned open a crack and a thin scar-faced man looked out, his own hand on a knife.

"I want lodging for myself and my hengist," said Alfric.

The landlord's hooded eyes slid up and down the barbarian's tall form. An indrawn breath hissed through his lips. "Are you from the northlands?" he asked.

"Aye." Alfric flung open the door and stepped into the taproom.

It was dim and dirty and low-ceiled, a few smoky torches throwing a guttering light on the hard-faced men who sat at the tables drinking the sour yellow wine of the south. They were all armed, all wary—the place was plainly a hangout of thieves and murderers.

Alfric shrugged broad shoulders. He'd stayed in such places often enough. "How much do you want?" he asked.

"Ah—" The landlord licked his lips, nervously. "Two chrysterces for supper now and breakfast tomorrow, one soldar room and girl."

The rate was so low that Alfric's eyes narrowed and his ears cocked forward in an instinctive gesture of suspicion. These southerners all named several times the price they expected to get, but he had never haggled one down as far as this fellow's asking price.

"Done," he said at last. "But if the food is bad or the bed lousy or the woman diseased, I'll throw you in your own pot and cut my breakfast off your ribs."

"'Twill not be needful, noble sir," whined the landlord. He waved a thin little slave boy over. "Take care of the gentleman's hengist."

Alfric sat down at a corner table and ate his meal alone. The food was greasy, but not bad. From the shadows he watched his fellow guests, sizing up their possibilities. That big spade-bearded fellow—he might be the head of a gang which would find an expert sword-swinger useful. And the little wizened man in the gray cloak might be a charlatan in need of a bodyguard—

He grew slowly aware of their own unease. There were too many sharp glances thrown in his own direction, entirely too many—too much whispering behind hands, too much furtive loosening of sheathed daggers. There was something infernally strange going on in Valkarion.

Alfric bristled like an angry jaccur, but throttled impatience and got up. Time enough to find all that out tomorrow—he was tired now from his long ride; he would sleep and then in the morning look the city over.

He mounted the stairs, conscious of the glances following him, and opened the door the boy showed to him. There he paused, and his hard jaw fell.

The room was just a room, small, lit by one stump of candle, no furniture save a bed. Its window looked out on an alley which was like a river of darkness.

It was the woman who held Alfric's eyes.

She was clad only in the usual gaudy silken shift, and she sat plucking thin chords from the usual one-stringed harp. Her rings and bracelets were ordinary cheap gewgaws. But she was no common tavern bawd—not she!

Tall and lithe and tawny-skinned, she rose to face him. Her shining blue-black hair tumbled silkily to her slim waist, framing a face as finely and proudly chiseled as a piece of ancient sculpture—broad clear forehead, delicately arched nose, full mobile mouth, stubborn chin, long smooth throat running down toward her high firm breasts. Her eyes were wide-set, dark and starry brilliant as the desert nights; her lips were like red flame.

When she spoke, it was music purring under the wind that whimpered outside and rattled the window sash.

"Welcome, stranger."

Alfric gulped, licked his lips, and slowly recovered his voice: "Thank you, my lovely." He moved closer to her. "I had not—not thought to find one like you—here."

"But now that you have—" She came closer, and her smile blinded him—"now that you have, what will you do?"

"What do you think?" he laughed.

She bent over and blew out the candle.

II

Alfric lost desire for sleep, the girl being as skilled in the arts of love as she was beautiful. But later they fell to talking.

A dim shaft of moonlight streamed through the window and etched her face against the dark, a faint mysterious rippling of light and shadow and loveliness. He drew her closer, kissed the smooth cheek, and murmured puzzledly: "Who are you? Why are you working in a place like this, when you could be the greatest courtesan in the world? Kings would be your slaves, and armies would go to battle with your name on their lips—if they only knew you."

She shrugged. "Fortune does strange things sometimes," she said. "I am Freha, and I am here because I must be." Her slim fingers ruffled his harsh black hair. "But tonight," she breathed, "I am glad of it, since you came. And who are you, stranger?"

"I am Alfric, called the Wanderer, son of Beodan the Bold, son of Asgar the Tall, from the hills and lakes of Aslak."

"And why did you leave your home, Alfric?"

"I was restless." For a bleak moment, he wondered why, indeed, he had ever longed to get away from the wind-whispering trees and the cool blue hills and the small, salty, sun-glinting lakes of home—from his father's great hall and farmstead, from the brawling lusty warriors who were his comrades, from the tall sweet girls and joys of the hunt and feast—Well, it was past now, many years past.

"You must have come far," said Freha.

"Far indeed. Over most of the world, I imagine." From Aslak, pasture lands of hengists, to the acrid red deserts of Begh Sarrah, the scrub forests of Astrak and Tollaciuatl, the towered cities of Tsungchi—along the great canals which the ancient Empire had built in its last days, still bringing a trickle of water from the polar snows to the starved southlands—through ruins, always ruins, the crumbling sand-filled bones of cities which had been like jewels a hundred thousand years ago and more—

Her cool hands passed over his face, pausing at the long dull-white scar which slashed across his forehead and left cheek. "You have fought," she said. "How you have fought!"

"Aye. All my life. That scar—? I got it at Altaris, when I led the Bonsonian spears at the storming of the gates. I have been war-captain, sitting beside kings, and I have been hunted outlaw with the garms baying at my heels. I have drunk the wine of war-lords and eaten the gruel of peasants and stalked my own game through the rime-white highlands of Larkin. I have pulled down cities, and been flung into the meanest jails. One king put a price on my head, another wanted me to take over his throne, and a third went down the streets before me, ringing a bell and crying that I was a god. But enough." Alfric stirred restlessly. Somehow, he felt again uneasy, as if—

Freha pulled his face to hers, and the kiss lasted a long time. Presently she murmured, "We have heard some rumors of great deeds and clashing swords, here in Valkarion. The story of the fall of Altaris is told in the marketplaces, and folk listen till far into the night. But why did you not stay with your kings and war-lords and captured cities? You could have been a king yourself."

"I grew weary of it," he answered shortly.

"Weary—of kingly power?"

"Why not? Those courts are nothing—a barbarian ruling over one or two cities, and calling himself a king and trying drearily to hold a court worthy of the title. The same, always the same endless squabbling, carrion birds quarreling among the bones of the Empire. I went on the next war, or to see the next part of the world, and erelong I learned never to stay too long in one place lest the newness of it wear off."

"Valkarion is ever new, Alfric. A man could live his life here and never see all there was."

"Perhaps. So they told me. And it was, after all, the old seat of the Empire, and its shrunken remnant of territory is still greater than any other domain. So I came here to see for myself." Alfric grinned, a wolfish gleam of teeth in the night. "Also, I heard tales—restlessness, a struggle for power between Temple and Imperium, with the Emperor an old man and the last of his line, unable to get a child on his young queen Hildaborg. It seemed opportune."

"How so?" He thought she breathed faster, lying there beside him.

He chuckled, a harsh iron sound in his corded throat. "How should I know? Except that when such a hell's broth is bubbling, a fighting man can always scoop up loot or power or—at the very least—adventure. If nothing else, there might be the Empress. They say she's a half barbarian herself, a princess of Choredon, and a lusty wench giving hospitality to every visiting noble or knight." He felt Freha stiffen a little, and added: "But that doesn't interest me now, when I've found you. Freha, leave this place with me tomorrow and you'll wear the crown jewels of Valkarion."

"Or else see your head on a pike above the walls," she said.

Faintly through the window and the whining night-wind, they heard the crash of a great gong.

"Dannos is rising," whispered Freha. "Tonight he mates with Mother Amaris. It is said that the Fates walk through the streets of Valkarion on such nights." She shivered. "Indeed they do on this eve."

"Perhaps," said Alfric, though the hackles rose on his neck. "But how do you know?"

"Have you not heard?" Her voice shuddered, seeming to blend with the moan of wind and steady, slow boom of gong. "Have you not heard? The Emperor Aureon is dying. He is not expected to last till dawn. The Thirty-ninth Dynasty dies with him, and—and there is no successor!"

The wind mumbled under the eaves, rattling the window frame and flowing darkly through the alley.

"Ha!" Alfric laughed harshly, exultantly. "A chance—by Ruho, what a chance!"

Of a sudden he stiffened, and the voice of danger was a great shout in his head. He sat up, cocking his ears, and heard the faint scratch and scrape—aye, under the window, coming close—

He slid from the covers and drew his sword where it lay on the floor. The boards felt cold under his bare feet, the night air fingered his skin with icy hands. "What is it?" whispered Freha. She sat up, the dark hair tumbling past her frightened face. "What is it, Alfric?"

He made no answer, but padded over to the window. Flattened against the wall, he stood waiting as a hand raised the sash from outside.

The pale cold light of Amaris fell on the hand that now gripped the sill. A body lifted itself, one-handed, the other clutching a knife. For an instant Alfric saw the flat hairless face in the moonlight, the double crescent brand livid against its horrible blankness. Then in one rippling motion the slave was inside the room.

Alfric thrust, slicing his heart. As the man fell, another swarmed up behind him. He and Alfric faced each other, tableau for one instant of rivering moonlight and whining wind and remotely beating gong. Then the barbarian's long arm shot out, yanked the slave in, and twisted him in an unbreakable wrestler's grip.

"Talk!" he hissed into the ear of the writhing creature. "Talk, or I'll break you bone by bone. Why are you here?"

"He can't," said Freha. She came up to them, white in the moonlight, her long hair blowing loose about her shoulders. "The Temple breeds these slaves, raises them from birth to utter, fanatical obedience. And—see—" She pointed to the dead man gaping under the window.

Stooping over, Alfric saw that he had no tongue.

The northerner shuddered. With a convulsive movement, he broke the neck of his prisoner and flung the body aside. "What do they want?" he panted. "Why are they after me?"

"There is a prophecy—but quick, there will be others. Out, down to the taproom—we must have protection—"

"The assassins would hardly be so stupid as to leave us a way out," grunted Alfric. "Any down there who might help us are probably dead or made prisoner now. No doubt these men have friends on guard, just outside the door—men who'll come in pretty soon when these don't come out—"

"Aye—that would be the way of the Temple—but where, then, where?"

Alfric flung on his kilt, dagger belt, and baldric. "Out the window!" He whipped the girl to him, held her supple body against his, kissed her hard and swift as the swoop of a hunting falkh. "Goodbye, Freha, you have been a wonderful companion. I'll see you again—if I live."

"But—you can't leave me!" she gasped. "The slaves will burst through—"

"Why should they harm you? They're after me."

"They will." He felt her shaking against him. "They will, that's their way—oh!"

The door shuddered as a heavy weight was flung against it. "That's they," snarled Alfric. "And the bolt won't hold very long. I'd like to stay and fight, but—Come!" He grabbed his cloak off the floor and buckled it across Freha's slim naked shoulders. "I'll go first—then you jump."

He balanced on the window-sill, then leaped. Even as he fell, he wondered at the agility of the slaves who had crawled up the wall. It was of roughset stones, but even so—

He hit the muck and cobblestones of the alley with the silent poise of a jaccur, and turned up to the window. It was just above the pit-black shadows, a square of darkness in the moon-whitened wall. "Come!" he called softly.

Freha's body gleamed briefly in the moonlight as she sprang. He caught her in his arms, set her down, and drew his sword. "Let's go," he growled. Then suddenly: "But where? Will the city guards protect us?"

"Some might," she answered shakily, "but most are controlled by fear of the Temple's curse. Best we go toward the palace. The Emperor's Household troops are loyal to him and hate the priesthood which seeks to usurp his power."

"We can head that way," he nodded, "meanwhile looking for a place to hide." He took her hand and they trotted through the thick darkness toward the dim light marking the end of the alley.

Other feet padded in the gloom. Alfric snarled soundlessly and pulled himself and the girl against a wall. He was almost blind in the dark, but he strained his ears, pointing them this way and that in search of the enemy.

The others had also stopped moving. They would be waiting for him to stir, and their own motionlessness could surely outlast the girl's—anyway, the pursuit from the room would be after him in another moment, when the door gave way—

"Run!" he snapped.

He felt a dart blow by the spot where he had spoken, and lengthened his frantic stride. A form rose before him, vague in the night. He chopped down with his sword, and felt a grim joy at the ripping of flesh and sundering of bone.

Now—out of the alley, into a street not much wider or lighter, and down its shadowy length. The slaves would be behind, but—

There was a one-story house ahead, of the usual flat-roofed construction. "Up!" gasped Alfric, and made a stirrup of his hands. He fairly flung the girl onto the roof. She gave him a hand up, bracing her feet against the parapet, and they fell down together behind it.

Alfric heard the slaves' bare feet trotting below him, but dared not risk a glance. Snakelike, he and Freha slithered across the housetop. Only a narrow space separated them from the next; they jumped that and crossed over to another and higher roof. From this, Alfric peered into the street beyond.

A couple of city guards were walking down it, spears at the ready. Alfric wondered whether he should join them—no, they would be no shield against a blowgun dart sent from an alley—anyway, they might be priest-loyal.

He put his mouth to Freha's ear, even then aware of the dark silky hair tickling his lips, and whispered: "What next?"

"I don't know." She looked ahead over the nighted roofs to the great central forum, still ruddy-bright with torches. Beyond it, the city climbed toward a double hill, on either crest of which was a building. One must be the palace, thought Alfric—it was in the graceful colonnaded style of the later Empire, white marble under Amaris. Nearly all its windows were dark; but he thought, puzzledly, that it was surrounded by a ring of fires.

The other building was a great gray pile, sprawling its grim massiveness in a red blaze of light. From it came the steady gong-beat and a rising chant—the Temple of the Two Moons, holding vigil at their wedding.

The night was huge above them, a vault of infinite crystal black in which the stars glittered in their frosty myriads and the Milky Way tumbled its bright mysterious cataract between the constellations. The pale disc of Amaris rode high, painting the city and the hills and the dead sea-floor with its cold ghostly light. And now Dannos was swinging rapidly out of the west, brightening the dark and casting weird double shadows that slowly writhed with its changing position.

It was bitter chill. The wind blew and blew, hooting down the streets, banging signs and driving dead leaves and sand and bits of parchment before it. Alfric shivered, wishing for the rest of his clothes. In the waxing moonlight, he could see sand-devils whirling on the sea-bottom, a witches' dance—and on such a night, trolls and ghosts and the Fates themselves might well be abroad.

He set his teeth against chattering and tried to fix his mind on real and desperately urgent problems. "The priests seemed able to trace us," he said. "At least, they knew where I went for lodging. Best we work toward the palace as you say, but look for a ruined house or some such place to hide in till morning."

III

The street below was deserted now. They jumped down to it and darted into the shadows on the other side. Slipping along the walls of buildings they followed its twisting length for some time. An occasional cloaked form passed silently by; otherwise there was only the bitter wind echoing hollowly along the tunnel-like streets.

Of a sudden Alfric stiffened. He heard the measured tramp of feet—a city patrol approaching, just around the next corner. Whirling, he led the way into an alley black as a cave mouth. It was blind, but there was a door at the end, from behind which came the twanging of harps and the thin evil whine of desert flutes. A tavern—shelter, of a sort—

Moonlight glistened on steel as the half-dozen guardsmen passed the alley—passed, stopped, and turned back. "They may be here," Alfric heard a voice.

Cursing under his breath, the northerner opened the door and stepped through, into a room barely lit by a few tapers, thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Alfric's nostrils quivered at the heavy sweet odor of shivash, and he noticed the floor covered with stupefied smokers. A little yellow man scurried back and forth, filling the pipes. At the farther end, with music and girls, were wine-drinkers, ragged men of ill aspect who looked up with hands on knives.

Freha slammed the bolt down behind them, and Alfric brandished his great sword and said to them all: "Show us a way out."

A fist beat on the door, a voice shouted: "Open, in the name of the Holy Temple!"

"No way out," gasped the landlord.

"There is always an exit to these dens," snapped Freha. "Show us, or we split your skull."

A man's knife-hand moved with blurring speed. Alfric stopped the thrown dagger with his sword-blade in a clang of steel, caught it in midair, and hurled it back. The man screamed as it thunked into his belly.

"Out!" snarled the barbarian, and his glaive sang about the landlord's ears.

"Here," cried the little man, running toward the end of the room.

The door groaned as the guardsmen hurled themselves against it.

The landlord opened a concealed trapdoor. Only darkness was visible below. Alfric snatched a torch from the wall and saw a tunnel of dark stone. "Down!" he rapped, and Freha jumped. He followed, bolting the trap behind him. It was of heavy iron—the soldiers would have to work to break through it.

The tunnel stretched hollowly away on either side. Freha broke into a run and Alfric loped beside her, the torch streaming in one hand and the sword agleam in the other. Their footfalls echoed through the cold moist dark.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Old sewers—not used now when water is scarce—a warren under the city—" gasped Freha.

"We can hide here, then," he panted.

"No—only the Temple knows all the passages—they'll have slaves guarding every exit—we'll be trapped unless we get out soon—"

Dim sky showed ahead, a hole with a rusted iron ladder leading up into it. Alfric doused his torch and swung noiselessly up the rungs to peer out.

The manhole opened into one of the ruinous abandoned districts, crumbling structures and shards of stone half buried by the drifting sand. Three guardsmen stood watching, spears at the ready. Otherwise there were only the moons and the wind and the silently watching stars.

Alfric's lip twisted in a snarl. So—the holes were already plugged! But—wait, all egresses could not be guarded yet; best to go on in search of another—no, by the time the fugitives got there it might be watched too. Here there was as least an absence of people to interfere.

He sprang out and rushed at the three, so swiftly that they were hardly aware of him before his blade was shrieking about them. One man tumbled with his head nearly sheared off. Another yelled, leaping back to thrust with his spear. Alfric dodged the jab, grabbed the shaft in one hand and pulled. The guardsman stumbled forward and Alfric's sword rang on his helmet. He dropped, stunned by the fury of the blow.

Alfric jumped out and rushed at the three, his blade shrieking....

The third was on Alfric like an angry jaccur. His spear-thrust furrowed along the barbarian's ribs. Alfric closed in, grinning savagely in the cold white moonlight, and thrust with his sword. The guard parried the blow with his small buckler, dropped his spear, and drew his shortsword. Bending low, he rushed in, probing for Alfric's guts, and the northerner skipped aside barely in time. The broadsword chopped down, through the guard's left leg. Blood spurted, the man crashed to earth, and Alfric stabbed him through the face before he could scream.

The second was climbing dizzily to his feet. Alfric knocked the sword from a nerveless hand and brought his own blade against the guardsman's throat. "Hold," he said. "One word, one movement, and you'll roll in the gutter with your comrades."

Freha came up, the cloak blowing about her wonderful naked body in the wild wind. She was a fay sight under the moons, and the prisoner groaned as he saw her. "Lady—lady, forgive—"

"Forgive a traitor?" she asked, wrath sparking in her voice.

"Why are the priests after me?" rapped Alfric.

The guard stared. "Surely—surely you know—"

"I know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a man."

"The prophecy—the priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy.... Later they said that—" the guard's desperate eyes turned to Freha. "They said you, your majesty—" His voice trailed off.

"Say on," she snapped. "Give me the priests' own words. By Dannos, they'll all swing for this! I am still Empress of Valkarion!"

Alfric looked at her in sudden shock, as if he had been clubbed. Empress—the Empress of Valkarion—

"But—they said you were not, your majesty ... the Emperor is dead, he died soon after sundown—"

"As soon as I was gone, eh? A priest's work, I am thinking. Someone will answer for that. Go on!"

"The High Priest sent word over the city. He told of the prophecy—we all knew of that, but he told it anew. But he said the heathen king could still be slain, and offered a thousand gildars to the man who did it." The guard gulped. "Then he said you—forgive me, lady, you asked for his words—he said since the Dynasty was now dead, the Temple would rule till further arrangements could be made. But the Empress Hildaborg, half barbarian, idolatrous witch—those were his words, your majesty—she lay under the Temple's ban. He said she was to be killed, or better captured, with the heathen stranger, with whom she would probably join forces. He put the most solemn curse of the Two Moons on anyone who should aid you and the man, or even fail to help hunt for you—" The guardsman sank to his knees, shaking. "Lady, forgive me! I have a family, I was afraid to refuse—"

"What of my Household troops?" she snapped.

"The priests sent a detachment of the city guards against them—a dreadful battle. The Household repelled the attack, but now they are besieged in the palace—"

"Little help there, then." Hildaborg laughed mirthlessly. "All the city against us, and our only friends bottled in a ring of spears. You chose an unlucky time to enter Valkarion, Alfric."

The barbarian's head was spinning. "You are—the Empress," he gasped, "and there's some nonsense about me.... What is this prophecy? Why did you—" his voice, helpless with bewilderment, faded off into the moaning wind.

"No time now, someone may be along any moment.... Where to hide, where to hide?"

Alfric's eyes traveled down to the two bodies sprawled on the street. Suddenly he laughed, a harsh metallic bark. "Why, in the very lair of the foe!" he said. "As good citizens, it behooves us to join the hunt for the outlaws. Here is suitable clothing for us."

She nodded, and fell at once to stripping the corpses. Alfric looked narrowly at the prisoner. "If you betray us—" he murmured.

"I won't—by the Moons, I swear I won't—"

"Indeed you won't," said Alfric, and lifted sword to cut him down.

Hildaborg sprang up and grabbed his arm. "That's a barbarous trick," she exclaimed angrily. "You need only bind and gag him, and hide him in one of these ruins."

"Why worry about the life of a guardsman?" he asked contemptuously.

Her dark head lifted in pride. "I am Empress of the guardsmen too," she said.

"As you like," shrugged Alfric.

The captive turned a face of utter worship to the woman. "You must secure me," he said, his voice shaking. "But when I am released, my body and soul are yours forever, my lady."

Hildaborg smiled, and proceeded to cut strips of cloth and dispose of the guard as she had said. Then she turned to Alfric. "You are hard of heart," she murmured, "but perhaps Valkarion needs one like you, strong and ruthless." Her deep eyes glowed. "How you fought, Alfric! How you fought!"

The barbarian squatted down and began wiping blood off the looted armor. "I've had enough," he growled. "I've been hoodwinked and hounded over the whole damned city, I've been thrown into a broil I never heard of, and now I want some truth. What is this prophecy? Why are you here? What does everyone want—" he laughed humorlessly—"besides our heads?"

"The prophecy—it is in the Book of the Sibyl, Alfric. It was made I know not how many thousands or tens of thousands of years ago, at the time of the Empire's greatest glory. There was a half-mad priestess who chanted songs of ruin and desolation, which few believed—what could harm the Empire? But the songs were handed down through many generations by a few who had some faith, and slowly it was seen that the songs spoke truth. One thing came to pass after another, just as it was foretold. Then the songs were collected by the priesthood, who use the book to guide their policies."

"Hmmmm—I wonder. I've no great faith in spaedom myself."

"These prophecies are true, Alfric! Now and again they have erred, but I think that is simply because the songs had become garbled in the long time they were handed down without much belief. All too often, the future history in the Book has been written anew by time's own pen." Hildaborg slipped a guardsman's tunic over her slim form. Her eyes were half-shut, dreaming. "They say the Sibyl was loved by Dannos, who gave her the gift of prophecy, and that Amaris jealously decreed she should foretell evil oftener than good. But a wise man at court, who had read much of the almost forgotten science of the ancients, told me he thought the prophecies could be explained rationally. He said sometimes the mind can slip forward along the—the world line, he called it, the body's path through a space and time that are one space-time. Sometimes, he said, one can 'remember' the future. He said the Sibyl's mind could have followed the world lines of her descendants too, thus traveling many ages ahead ... but be that as it may, she spaed truly, and her prophecy of tonight is of—you!"

The warrior shook his dark head, feeling a sudden eerie weight of destiny. "What was the tale?" he whispered. The wind whipped the words from his mouth and whirled them down the empty street.

Hildaborg stood while he buckled the corselet on her, and her voice rose in a weird chant that sang raggedly across the ruined buildings, under the stars and the two flying moons. Even Alfric's hardy soul was shaken by the ominous words, his hands trembling ever so faintly as he worked.

"Woe, woe to Dannos and to Amaris and to those who serve them, cry woe on Valkarion and the world! The Thirty-ninth Dynasty shall end on the night when Dannos weds again with Amaris; winds shall howl in the streets and bear away his soul. Childless shall the Emperor die, the Imperial line shall die with him, and a stranger shall sit in the high throne of Valkarion.

"He shall come riding alone and friendless, riding a gray hengist into Valkarion on the evening of that night. A heathen from the north is he, a worshipper of the wind and the stars, a storm which shall blow out the last guttering candles of the Empire. From the boundless wastes of the desert shall he ride, ruin and darkness in his train, and the last long night of the Empire will fall when he comes.

"Woe, Dannos, your temple will stand in flames when the heathen king is come! Woe, Mother Amaris, he will defile your holy altars and break them down! Gods themselves must die, their dust will whirl, on the breath of his wind-god, the last blood of the Empire will be swallowed by the thirsty desert.

"Woe, for the heathen night which falls! Woe, for the bitter gray dawn which follows! The Moons of the Empire have set, and an alien sun rides baleful over Valkarion."

There was silence after that, save for the hooting of wind and the thin dry whisper of blowing sand. Dannos swung higher, a pale cold eye in the frosty heavens. Alfric clamped his teeth together and finished the disguise.

The armor and clothing were strained on his tall form, ill-fitting, but with the cloak draped over, and the helmet shadowing his face, he should pass muster. Under the cloak, across his back, he had his broadsword—these short southern stabbers were no good.

Hildaborg was better fitted. Slim and boyish in the shining steel, her long hair tucked under the crested helm, spear carried proudly erect, she seemed a young goddess of war. Alfric thought dizzily that no such woman had ever crossed even his dreams.

He hid the corpses in the ruins and they started down the street together. "We'll try to work through the line of siege, into the palace," he said. "Once we're with your troops, something may still be done."

"I doubt it. They are brave men, but few—few." Her voice was bitter.

"If we can—" Alfric sank into thought for a while. Then suddenly he said: "Now I know why the priests are after me. But what of you? Where do you come into this picture?"

"I knew about the prophecy," she replied. "Also, I knew what my fate was likely to be when Aureon died. The Temple and the Imperium, ostensibly the two pillars of the Empire, have long been struggling for power. Each side has its warriors and spies, its adherents among the nobles and commons—oh, the last several generations have been a weary tale of intrigue, murder, corruption, with first one side and now another on top. The Temple wants a figurehead Emperor, the Imperium wants a subservient priesthood—well, you know the story."

"Aye. A sorry one. It should be ended with the sword. Wipe both miserable factions out and start anew."

She looked curiously at him. "So the Sibyl was not wrong," she murmured. "The heathen come out of the north with destruction alike for the Empire and the gods."

"Luigur take it, I don't care about Valkarion! Not even enough to destroy it. I only want to save my own neck." His hand stroked her arm, softly. "And yours. But go on."

"The Thirty-ninth Dynasty was the last family with any pretensions to even a trace of the legendary Imperial blood, the line of Dannos himself. And Aureon was the last of them—his sons slain in war, himself an old man without relatives. The Imperial line had been weakening and dying for generations—inbred, enfeebled, degenerate, the blood of Dannos running thinner in each new birth. Aureon had sense enough to take a second wife of different stock—myself, princess of Choredon. Thereby he gained a valuable ally for Valkarion—but no children, and now he is dead." Hildaborg sighed. "So the Imperium is gone, the Temple is the sole power, and a strong and unscrupling High Priest rules Valkarion. I think the Priest, Therokos, intends to proclaim Valkarion a theocracy with himself as the head. But first, for reasons of politics and personal hatred, he must get rid of me."

"Why should he hate you?"

Hildaborg smiled twistedly. "He disapproves of barbarians, and my mother was from Valmannstad. He disapproves of my laxness in religious matters. He knows I stand between him and absolute power. I gave Aureon strength to oppose him and thwarted many of his measures. The commons think well of me, I have done what I could to improve their lot, and he hates any hold on Valkarion's soul other than his own.

"I knew that with Aureon dead and no heir of the blood, Therokos would feel free to strike. I could not hope to match him for long, especially since the law is that no woman may rule in Valkarion. My one chance seemed to lie in the new conqueror who was to come. Yet I could not approach him openly—the Temple spies were everywhere, and anyway the prophecy was that he would be a destroying fury, worse perhaps than the priests. I had to sound him out first, and secretly.

"So I put a trustworthy guards-captain in charge of the gate today, with instructions to direct the stranger to the Falkh and Firedrake. The landlord there was paid to make sure you would stay, and would take the room where I was in my guise of tavern girl.

"So you came. But now it seems the priests were ware to my plan. They have acted swifter than I thought, striking instantly at my men—I expected at least a few days of truce. And I played into their hands by thus cutting myself off from all help. Now they need only hunt us down and kill us."

"'Twill take some doing," growled Alfric. "Ha, we may yet pull their cursed temple down about their shaven skulls!"

"And so the prophecy would be fulfilled—you would blow out the last dim flicker of light—" She stopped, staring at him, and her voice came slowly: "Valkarion, the last citadel of civilization, the last hope of the dying world, to be wasted by a heathen bandit—perhaps the priests are right, Alfric of Aslak. Perhaps you should die."

"Luigur take your damned prophecy!" he snarled.

They stood tautly facing each other in the thin chill moonlight. The wind blew and blew, whining between the empty ruins of houses, blowing the dust of their erosion along the empty street.

"I know your old Imperial towns," said Alfric savagely. "I've seen them, moldering shells, half the place deserted because the population has shrunk so far—wearily dreaming of a dead past, grubbing up the old works and sitting with noses buried in the old books, while robbers howl in the deserts and thieving politicians loot the treasury. Year by year, the towns crumble, bridges fall, canals dry up, people grow fewer—and nobody cares. A world is blowing away in red dust, and nobody stirs to help. By the winds of Ruho, it's about time someone pulled down that tottering wreck you call Imperial civilization! It's about time we forgot the past and started thinking—and doing—something about the present. The man who burns Valkarion will be doing the world a service!"

Silence, under the wind and the stars and the two moons marching toward their union. Hildaborg hefted her spear until the point gleamed near Alfric's throat.

He sneered, out of bitterness and despair and a sudden longing for her lips. "Don't try to stick me with that toy. You saw what happened to the guards."

"And you would kill me?" Her voice was all at once desolate; she dropped the spearhead to the ground.

"No. But I would leave you—no, by the Holy Well, I wouldn't. But I'd leave the damned city." He stepped forward, laying his hands on her mailed shoulders, and his voice rang with sudden earnestness. "Hildaborg, that is your answer. No need to stay in this place of death. We can steal hengists and bluff our way past the gates and be in the hills ere dawn. If you fear for Valkarion at my hands, leave it—leave it to rot and come with me."

"Come—where?"

"Home, back to Aslak. Back to the blue hills and the windy trees and the little lakes dancing in the sun—to an open heaven and a wide land and free folk who look you honestly in the eye. Luigur take the Empire, as he will whatever we do." He laughed, a joyous sound echoing in the night. "We'll build our own stead and live as freefolk and raise a dozen tall sons. Hildaborg, let's go!"

For a moment she stood silent. When she spoke, her voice trembled a little, and the moonlight glinted off tears in her eyes.

"I love you for it, Alfric, and gladly would go. But Therokos is besieging the palace—he is gathering in all who ever spoke well of me ... shall my friends be hanged and burned and hacked to bits, and I safe in Aslak?"

"You're a fool. What could you do for them?"

"Die. But this is no quarrel of yours, Alfric. If you wish, go, and I shall not think of the less of you. Go—my dearest—"

He laughed again, and kissed her for a very long moment. "You are a fool and a madwoman, and I love you for that," he said. "Come—we can still show these priests the color of steel!"

IV

They trotted rapidly along the ways, their mail clanking. Erelong they were out of the deserted district and approaching the central forum.

It seethed with people. All Valkarion seemed to be out tonight, moving slowly, aimlessly, under the compulsion of a nameless fear. The town buzzed with voices, low, secretive, and the shuffle of thousands of feet under the lamps and the bobbing torches. High over the muted tumult, blown on the harrying wind, chant and gong-beat came from the Temple.

Alfric and Hildaborg pushed their way through the milling, murmuring tide. The unease, the rising wave of fear, was like a tangible force; the northerner's skin prickled with it. Eyes, thousands of eyes, shifting and staring out of pale faces—the city was full of eyes.

He heard a voice as he came to the edge of the great plaza. Thrusting forward, the tall barbarian looked over the heads of the crowd. There was a rostrum, surrounded by a tight ring of Temple guards, and from atop it a robed priest was haranguing the throng.

"—the Dynasty is dead, and the wrath of the Moons lies heavy over Valkarion. Woe to the world, for the heathen fiend, the scourge of Dannos, is loose!

"Yet I bring hope—aye, from all-merciful Mother Amaris I bring cheer in this darkest hour. There is time, still time to seize the barbarian ere his power grows. There is still time, too, to seize and disown the half-caste witch Hildaborg. There is time to submit to the wise rule of the Temple, that the High Priest may intercede with All-father Dannos. Repent and be forgiven—destroy the evilworkers who brought this trouble on you, and the Mating of the Moons will yet bring forth a new birth of hope!"

Alfric grew aware of the muttering about him—the commons of Valkarion, laborer, artisan, merchant, peasant, turning thought over and growling it to his neighbor.

"—an ill choice, to see the city ruined or bow to the shavepates."

"I am afraid. The Moons are high and bitter bright now, they are looking down on us. I am afraid."

"'Twas Hildaborg who lowered the taxes. 'Twas Hildaborg, and not dotard Aureon or thieving Therokos, who whipped the army into shape and beat off the Savonnian invaders. What has the Temple ever done for us, save milk us for our tithes and frighten our babes with stories of godly wrath?"

"Hush! The Moons are watching!"

"Hildaborg is beautiful, she is like a goddess as she rides through the streets and smiles on us. Amaris herself is not more beautiful."

"The Temple is holy."

"The priests burned my brother for sorcery. He had one of the old books, that is all; he tried to build the machine it told of—and they burned him."

"They have enough old books themselves. They sit on all the wisdom of the ancients, and none of us can so much as read."

"The Fates are abroad tonight. I am afraid."

"My son is in the Household. They're after his skin—he'll hang if he isn't dead already—unless—"

"Aye, my son is in the city guards. They told him to go hunt down the stranger and the Empress—the Empress!—and off he went." A grim chuckle. "But I think he is sitting quietly in some corner, waiting."

"There is an old battle ax at home. My grandfather bore it in the Rurian war. I think I could still swing it if need be."

"I am afraid—"

Alfric smiled, a steely grimace in the shadow of his visor, and led the way onward.

But he was not to pass easily. He thrust aside a burly peasant, who turned on him with a snarl. "Mind your manners, guardsman! Is't not enough you should be traitor to the Empress?"

"Aye, the city guards have sat about drinking and gaming and making the streets unsafe for our daughters," said another man harshly. "They didn't get off their fat butts till this chance came to go yapping after Hildaborg."

Alfric tried to shoulder past the ring of angry folk who gathered. "Aside!" he called. "Aside, or I use my spear!"

"Mind your manners, guardsman," grinned the peasant. He came closer, and Alfric smelled the wine on his breath. "What say we have a little fun with these priest-lovers, comrades? Will they squeal when we pummel 'em?"

Alfric's fist shot out like a ball of iron. There was a dull smack, and the peasant flew back against the man behind. The barbarian flailed out with his spear butt, and the crowd gave way.

"Through!" he muttered to Hildaborg. "Quick, we have to get away."

"They're our friends," she whispered frantically. "Can't we reveal—"

"And bring the guard down on this unarmed mob? We wouldn't last a moment. Come!"

A stone clanged against the girl's helmet. She staggered, half collapsing into Alfric's arms. The crowd growled, beast-like, and shoved in closer.

"Aside!" shouted Alfric. "Make way, or the curse of the Moons is on you!"

"You talk like a priest," said a laborer thickly. He lifted a heavy billet of wood. "On them, boys! Kill them!"

Alfric laid the half-stunned girl on the ground, stood over her, and drew his broadsword. "An outlander!" shouted someone, back in the sea of shadowy, torch-lit, hating faces. "A mercenary, hunting our empress!"

The mob surged against him. He thrust around with the sword, striking to disable but not to kill—though he'd slay if he had to, he thought desperately.

Stones were flying. One hit him on the cheek. Pain knifed through his head. "Hai, Ruho!" he roared, and banged a skull. The mob edged away a little. Eyes and teeth gleamed white in the bloody torchlight.

A trumpet-blast sounded, harsh and arrogant over the rising voices. Someone screamed. Alfric saw spears aloft, steel gleaming red—a squad of guardsmen to the rescue.

The rescue! He groaned, lifted Hildaborg, and sought to retreat through the crowd.

Too late. The guards were hacking a bloody way through the mob; it scattered in panic and the squad was there.

"Just in time," panted its chief. "The folk are ugly. They've killed a dozen guardsmen already, to my knowledge, a couple of priests, I don't know how many Temple slaves—Dannos smite the blasphemers!"

"Thanks." Alfric set the reviving girl on her feet. "Now I have to go—special mission, urgent—"

The chief looked sharply at him. "You have a barbarous accent," he said slowly, "and you're no Valkariona. Who—"

Hildaborg groaned, stirring back to consciousness. "Alfric—"

"A boy—no—" The officer stepped forth. Hildaborg's lovely face turned toward the light, and he gasped. "She—"

Alfric picked up his spear and hurled it through the chief's throat. Then he lifted his dripping sword and stood by Hildaborg, waiting for the end.

"The Empress—the Empress, and the heathen—We've found them—"

The crowd had withdrawn, milling around the edges of the forum, too frightened and confused to help. The priest and his guards were coming on the double, yelling for help. Other armed men seemed to be springing from the ground.

"Alive!" shrilled the priest. "Take them alive if you can! A thousand gildars!"

The guards were well disciplined. They locked shields in a ring about Alfric and closed in. Man for man, he could have laughed at them—but this way—

Hildaborg swayed on her feet beside him. "So this is the end?" she whispered. "I love you, Alfric—"

He howled his rage, and sprang forward. The sword blurred in his hands, ringing on shields and helmets. A guard fell, shrieking, his right arm sheared off. Alfric stabbed another in the neck, kicked a third in the groin, and roared.

They surged around him, hemming him in with their shields. Clubbed spears thudded against his helmet, and it rang like a brazen gong. He staggered, shouted, struck out again—the sword fell from his hands—he toppled into a clamoring darkness—

Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of armor, chained hand and foot, hauled roughly to his feet. He lurched mechanically along, and slowly his head cleared. Through a mist of throbbing pain, he saw that Hildaborg walked beside him. Spears pricked their backs, the chains rattled on ankles and wrists. They were in the middle of a tight triple ring of guards, marching up the hill toward the Temple.

The villas of the mighty lay around them, white in the moonlight, fragrant with gardens. Alfric saw fountains splashing, and even then thought of the parched land beyond the walls, land that might flower again if it had that water.

But that would never be. He would swing high above the city, the falkhs would pick out his eyes—Hildaborg would die, and the grip of the Temple would be locked on Valkarion till its last stones were dust on the wind.

Strength came back, a bleak resolve not to go down without one more fight. His brain began whirring, the old cold craftiness of his turbulent lifetime surged forward ... hopeless. They were caught, they were done; all his struggles were the vain writhings of a beast in a cage.

"So this ends it." Hildaborg's voice was weary. Then she smiled a little. "But we made a good try, Alfric." And warmly: "And we have loved each other. That is enough."

"It is not," he answered. "But it is something."

"Silence!" commanded the priest.

Now they were on the hillcrest, the mighty walls of the Temple looming before them. Alfric saw it aswarm with slaves and guards and priests of all degrees. The gong-beat was a steady, tremendous crashing—it seemed to fill the world with its brazen clamor. High rose the chant of the Moon Wedding.

The warrior glanced aside, over to the palace. There was a bridge spanning the gully between the two hillcrests, and guards were on it. Other guards, city and Temple, were besieging the palace; he saw their fires in a ring about it. They were setting up a great ballista whose stones, he knew, would bring the walls down in ruin.

From the hilltop he could see over the moon-whitened desert and the vast reach of the old sea-bottom. Once it had been blue and alive, glittering with sunlight, the long waves rolling in to crash in foam and thunder on a dazzling beach. The harbor of Valkarion had been crowded with ships from all the world, a forest of tall masts, a wild perfumery of salt and tar and the spices of the south. And beyond, the land had been green, and white clouds had sailed through a soft blue summer sky.

Well, it was gone—the world was dried into desert and scrubby forest and harsh meadowland, sand blew in the ancient beds of rivers and seas, the air was thin and chill and held a bitter tang of rust. The cities were in ruins, the Empire was a shadow, and man was gone back to a few wretched remnants, sinking into barbarism and death.

Alfric looked up to the cold, splendid night sky. There was a tradition from the wise ancients, he had once been told, that those swarming bright star-hosts were other worlds and suns, happier, maybe, than this. It was some consolation.

The Moons were near their mating now. Bright Dannos was sweeping triumphantly down on pale Mother Amaris; he would cover her and then pass on, and out of that wedding would come the fate of the world. Cold fate, dark destiny—night and famine and death, the moons hurtling over a world sunk into final oblivion.

Well, men died, sometime or other, and all they could do about it was to meet the end bravely. Alfric squared his shoulders and marched into the Temple.

There was a long corridor, at the end of which he saw a vast room flashing in gold and silver and fiery jewels, draped with the costliest ancient tapestries. Even then, Alfric's eyes gleamed greenly. To loot that room!

They turned off along another hall, and then down a stone-cut flight of steps into the Temple dungeons. Alfric had been in enough jails before not to find the damp, rough-hewn rock tunnels strange, but Hildaborg shuddered and pressed closer to him.

A scream echoed down the corridor, rose and fell and died raggedly into the echoes. The priest smirked. "A heretic is being shown the error of his ways," he said unctuously. "He blasphemed against the Moons and swore he would abide by the Empress."

"Then the gods abide by him," said Hildaborg defiantly.

The guards thrust them into a cell, little more than a cave chipped out of the hill's heart, and locked their chains to staples in the walls. They were held barely able to move, facing each other with a few scant inches between—miles between, a world between, thought Alfric wearily—he would never kiss her again—

The guards clanged the door shut and left them in utter darkness. Hildaborg's voice trembled, but she spoke bravely: "What can we do?"

"Nothing, now." The barbarian strained against his chains, felt their solidity, and relaxed. "Wait for a chance, maybe. Otherwise—die."

"I don't want to die, Alfric. I want to live, I want to see the sky and feel the wind and bear your sons."

"I don't enjoy the thought of death either, dearest. If we had fled to Aslak—"

"But we didn't, and for myself I am still glad. Though that you should die too—" Her voice broke, and he heard her quiet sobbing in the dark.

He tried to find words, but they were awkward. So he fell into silence.

Presently the door opened again. A man came in with only two torch-bearing Temple slaves accompanying. Alfric looked at his magnificent robes and knew him for Therokos the High Priest.

He was tall, stoop-shouldered, a little on the fat side but well muscled underneath. His face was wide and heavy, sallow under the high shaven forehead, the mouth hard and thin, the eyes small and black and glittering-cold. When he spoke, his voice was wondrous, a deep organ which he played like a master musician.

"So we meet again, your majesty," he said, and bowed. There was little mockery in his tones; he seemed straightforward and businesslike.

Hildaborg did not answer. She stood with her beauteous form in its ragged soldier's tunic pressed against the wall. Her sweat-dampened black hair clung to her forehead, fell down her shoulders in a shining wave. In the restless torchlight, her face was white and drawn, streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears, but she gave the High Priest glance for glance and her lips were steady.

Therokos looked Alfric's tall form up and down. "And so you are the conqueror of the prophecy," he murmured. "A mighty man—but just how did you think you could do it? Who are your allies in the city? What was your plan?"

"I am Alfric of Aslak, and I came here without friends or plan, knowing nothing of any prophecy," answered the barbarian coldly. "And you are a misbegotten son of a she-garm, with whose head I will yet play football."

"Come now," said Therokos softly, "surely you do not expect me to believe you are here by mere chance? Your cause is lost, you are doomed, but you can save yourself the inquisition and die easily if you will tell us what you know."

"I know nothing, you jerrad!"

"You may know more after the inquisitioners have worked on you awhile," said Therokos coldly. Then turning to Hildaborg, his voice suddenly rich and warm, throbbing with love and pity: "My lady, my lady, you do not know how I regret this. That the Empress of Valkarion should, even for dire necessity, be thus humiliated is the greatest sorrow of my life."

Hildaborg's lip curled. "I see you weeping," she said coldly.

"But I do, my lady—my heart is ashes within me. Only need drove me to this—and it is not yet too late to repent, your majesty. What the Moons have taken, the Moons can restore.

"Surely, my lady," said Therokos reasonably, "you can see the absolute necessity of my actions. Under the law, you could not rule, and there was no Imperial heir. Without a strong hand, leaderless Valkarion would have split under the quarreling of the nobles and the lawlessness of the commons, easy prey for barbarian enemies such as this man—and the Sibyl's warning would have come true. With the Imperium gone, the Temple, sole remaining pillar of Valkarion, must bear the burden of state."

"In other words," said Hildaborg coldly, "you will have yourself anointed Theocrat."

"The Moons have seen fit thus to honor my unworthiness," said Therokos. "But it would still be well if we should unite our forces. You have many loyal friends, my lady, myself not the least of them. If you will but wed me, we can together unite the factions in the city and build the Empire anew."

She smiled, almost a sneer. "Yours was a strange courtship."

"I have told you how the necessity grieved me," said the priest. Suddenly his voice came hard as steel, cold as winter and death: "It is now my duty to offer you a choice. Call on your troops to surrender, your followers in the city to desist from their treasonous activities, and wed me this night, or—" he paused—"burn at the stake for blasphemy and witchcraft. But first you will be tied down and every slave in the Temple have his way with you."

"That might not be worse than leading my men into your hands," she flared. But her face was suddenly bloodless.

"You will be surprised how much worse it will be—especially since your men will die anyway. But I will offer you this, too: if you call on them to surrender, those who do may go into exile."

She stood a moment in silence, and Alfric knew what a horror must be clawing her heart. Then she nodded toward him: "What of my protector here?"

"The heathen bandit must die in any case, that the city may know itself safe from him and the prophecy," said Therokos. "He still has his choice of easy hanging or slow torture. But if you refuse me, Hildaborg, he will no longer have the choice; he will go to hell by inches, cursing you for it."

The lovely dark head bowed. It was as if a flame had gone out. Alfric felt ill at seeing her thus broken, given over to a lifetime's prisoning—golden chains they would be, but no less heavy and galling. "Goodbye, my dear," he whispered. "Goodbye, I will always love you."

She made no reply, but said to Therokos, tonelessly: "I yield me, lord."

V

The high priest's face lit, and Alfric realized dully that Therokos, too, loved the queen—in his own cold way. "You do well, beautiful one," he said shakily. He came over and kissed her and fondled her stiff body. "You have never done better, black witch. Now come—to your wedding."

He signed to the two slaves, who sconced their torches and took a key from their master. They unlocked Hildaborg's chains, and she almost fell into Therokos' arms.

He caressed her, murmuring softly. "There, dear, easy—you will wash and eat and rest, you will wear the robes of honor—be at ease, you are safe now, you are mine forever."

"Aye—" She braced herself, every muscle tautened under the silken skin, and suddenly she hurled the priest from her—sent him staggering against Alfric. "Kill!" she screamed.

The barbarian snarled, wild with a sudden murderous glory, and his manacled hands shot out. One gripped Therokos over the mouth, and the other sank steely fingers into the wattled throat.

The two slaves sprang at him like wild garms. Knives flashed in the bloody light. Hildaborg snatched a torch and swept its flaming end across the eyes of one. He screamed wordlessly, rolling over and over, clawing at his face. Hildaborg snatched up his dagger and lunged at the other.

Alfric groaned. What chance did she have against the deadly experience of a Temple assassin?—Therokos had gone limp. Alfric flung the heavy body crashing into the slave. They went down together. Hildaborg leaped in, her knife rising and falling and rising again, streaming red.

Then she was in his arms, shaken by wild sobbing. He held her close, kissed her, stroked her hair, and had time for a dim wondering amazement that such a woman should have lain in his—his—fate.

There was no time to lose. "Unlock me," he said. "Unlock me and let's get out of this den of Luigur."

She searched Therokos' robes for the key, found it, and cast the chains rattling aside. Alfric snatched up a knife, with an uneasy glance at the door. But the noise had drawn no guards. They must be used to screams in this part of the Temple.

Therokos stirred, groaning. Alfric's big brown form stooped over him, dagger against throat. "Up with you, fat jerrad," hissed the northerner. "Up, and not a word, or you'll be spilling guts over the floor."

The High Priest climbed unsteadily to his feet. "Now lead us out by a secret way," rasped Alfric.

"There is none—" groaned Therokos.

Alfric slapped him with savage fury. "Shut up! I know there is. You priests are like all burrowing snakes, you've more than one exit to your holes. March! And if we meet guards, you'll die first."

Therokos flung him a glance of utter hate, but stumbled obediently ahead. The empty corridor echoed dully to their footfalls. Near its end, Therokos pressed a camouflaged stud, and a section of the rock wall swung aside on noiseless hinges.

Hildaborg took a torch from the wall and closed the door behind them. They went down a long sloping tunnel, so low that Alfric had to stoop. "You cannot hope to escape," said Therokos, his voice again under his wondrous control. "Best you give up peaceably, saving trouble and lives on both sides. In exchange, I will offer better terms than before."

"What?" asked Alfric skeptically.

"Weapons, money, and hengists—then you can leave the city for the hell that awaits you."

"And my men?" insisted Hildaborg.

"Exile, with you."

Alfric pondered the proposal. If they could get free, with men at their back, they could always raise an army for a new attempt. But surely Therokos was aware of that. So if he had some trick—and it would be strange if he did not—

"How do we know you'll keep the bargain?" he asked coldly.

"You have the honor of the High Priest," answered Therokos loftily. Alfric sneered, and Therokos added: "Also, I assume you keep me prisoner until you are safe."

"It does not sound ill—" mused Hildaborg.

Nor did it to Alfric. But he shook his head, stubbornly. "I mistrust him. Moreover, a new war, after he had time to get ready, would take time and lives, and might fail. If tonight is indeed the night of destiny, we can still strike."

"With what?" jeered Therokos.

Alfric was not quite sure himself, but prodded the captive ungently onward. They came to another hinged rock, and Therokos opened that door for them. Alfric's spine crawled with the thought of what might lie beyond; he kept the dagger against Therokos' back as they stepped out.

They were in the shadows of a ruined portico, in a deserted section near the bottom of the hill. White and serene, the ancient columns lifted toward the two moons. The gracious remnants of elder days stretched on either side, half buried by drifting sand. Black against the sky, the Temple loomed on the hillcrest, but Alfric saw no movement.

Hildaborg slipped against him. "Now what shall we do?" she whispered.

He laughed softly, the old grim battle joy flowing up in him. Weariness and despair fell off like an outworn cloak—there was new strength in his thews and a goal in his mind.

"I heard, down there, how Valkarion really hates the priests," he said. "The city is seething with revolt which wants only a leader. Could the common folk rise, I think nigh all the city guards, impressed into priest service by fear, would come over to their side. And you—they love you, Hildaborg. Could you go to sure friends?"

"Aye—there is old Bronnes the merchant and Captain Hassalon of the guard, and—many."

"Then go. Slip down to them, give them word and tell them to pass it on, to shout it over the city. You, the Empress, the divinely appointed lady of Valkarion, tell the folk to rise against the Temple. Let them storm the citadel, and they may have the looting of it!" He chuckled. "That should bring in the laggards."

"But—untrained mobs, against the guards—"

"There will be other guardsmen on your side. And—this is my part—your Household will also be there."

"But—they're besieged—"

"I'll get them out." Alfric stripped off Therokos' gold-braided cloak, and slung it over her shoulders. "This will cover you well enough so you can get to your friends unharmed. Now go, Hildaborg, and Ruho go with you."

He kissed her, with a wild hunger that dissolved into tenderness. "Stay out of danger," he whispered. "Stay in a safe place till I come for you—Hildaborg—"

Therokos scuttled aside. "Oh, no!" snarled Alfric, and stabbed. The priest tumbled, with blood rivering from his stomach, choking his screams. Alfric took Hildaborg again in his arms. "Goodbye, my dearest dear—"

She slipped into the shadows. Alfric sighed, wondering with a brief heaviness if he would ever see her again. He knew full well how desperate his gamble was.

Well, there was work to be done. He turned and ran crouched along the hillside, weaving in and out of darkness. The Moons were almost at their mating now, flooding the city with chill silver radiance.

He grinned up at them. And what did they think of this ruination of their ancient godhead? He could hardly imagine them caring about it. Surely Dannos, the swift warrior, and bright Mother Amaris had more use for an honest fighting man and his warm-hearted love than for a bunch of sniveling shavepates. All honor to the Moons, but not to tyrants and murderers in their name.

He was in the gully now, between Temple and palace. Snakelike, he crawled under the shadow of the bridge to its farther end, where he peered cautiously around an abutment.

The trampled gardens were full of city and Temple guards, whose watchfires ringed the palace. He saw the light agleam on spears and swords and armor, and had time to wonder if he would ever make it past them.

But he had to try. He drew a deep breath, tightened his muscles, and ran.

Like a flying arrow he ran, noiseless on bare feet, and none saw him before he was hugged against a low thorn-tree near one of the fires. Up it he went, wincing as the thorns raked him, and slipped along a branch almost overhanging the blaze.

He caught a snatch of muttered conversation. "—when they finish those siege engines, down the palace goes. But the Household will be out like a swarm of stinger asts. I don't relish fighting the best swords in Valkarion."

"No, but we outnumber them."

"My cousin is in there. I hate to think of—"

Alfric sprang! He soared from his perch and crashed into the chest of the man he had picked. The guard went down in a clang of armor and dry snap of breaking ribs. Alfric snatched his spear and jabbed it through the groin of another. Through that gap, then, he raced, low and zigzag among the bushes.

The siege line roared. The air was suddenly thick with spears and arrows. Alfric felt one rake his leg, and cursed between gasps. To the palace!

"Open!" he howled. "Open, let me by, in the name of the Empress!"

If the garrison took this for a ruse and shot him, it was all over. He plunged up the long staircase, past the crouching craven sphinxes of the Empire. The doors had been broken down in the first assault, but the Imperials had put up a barricade. He saw steel flash as he neared it.

"Hildaborg!" he bawled. "Live the Empress!"

They held their fire. He fell under the barricade while their arrows hummed overhead. The disorderly Temple pursuit broke into retreat, back out of bowshot.

Alfric climbed over the barricade into the great palace antechamber. Its golden glory was gutted by fighting, splashed with dry blood, the tapestries in rags and the furniture splintered. Dead men and wounded lay side by side against the walls, under the ancient murals of the Empire's greatness. A dozen tall cuirassiers in gold and purple uniforms—now torn and blood-stained—stood waiting for him. Their spears and swords, axes and bows were at the ready, their haggard faces bleak with suspicion.

"Who are you?" demanded the captain. "What is this?"

"I am Alfric of Aslak—" panted the newcomer.

"A barbarian—the barbarian—the outlander of the prophecy—" They hefted their weapons, eyes narrowing, mouths drawing into taut lines.

"I am with Hildaborg, against the Temple," said Alfric. "'Twas with my help she escaped their net. Now she leads all of us to overthrow her foes."

"How do we know you speak truth?" snapped the captain.

"You'll know it when I lead you out against the Temple!"

"Out—to be cut down by thrice our number? Go to!"

"They'll have more to worry about than us," said Alfric. In hard brief words, he told them the plan.

At the end of it, the tall captain clapped his shoulder and said in a voice suddenly warm: "That is a tale whose truth we can see for ourselves, when the Empress' folk come up against the Temple. So I'll believe it, for one. I am Ganimos of the Imperial Household. Welcome, Alfric of Aslak!"

The barbarian nodded, too weary for speechmaking. "Give me some water and wine and a little to eat," he said. "I'll wash, refresh myself, and be ready to go with you at the time of the uprising. If we hit the Temple from the side then, it will fall."

But he had scarcely gotten clean, donned a guardsman's armor, and stretched himself on a couch for a moment's nap, when he heard the blare of trumpets. Ganimos burst into the room where he lay, shouting: "The Temple's men are storming us again in full force, and no help from the city in sight. Up—up and die!"

VI

Alfric swung to his feet, suddenly raging. "Therokos!" he growled. "I thought the devil was left dying, but someone must have found him. He knows the plan, means to thwart it by taking us before Hildaborg's force can be raised. Without us to attack from the flank, the Temple may well drive off her assault."

Ganimos fingered his shortsword with an ominous side glance. "Unless this be some treachery of yours, barbarian—" he murmured.

"What difference has my coming made in your actions so far?" snapped Alfric. "Were I of the enemy camp, would I have come here to fight on your side when they attacked?"

"Aye—truth, truth. But come!" Ganimos smiled twistedly. "If this is your night of destiny as they say, Alfric, the Fates have their work cut out for them!"

A roar of battle rose as they came out into the antechamber. Ganimos groaned. "There are too many ways into this damned building—we have to guard them all and we lost a quarter of our men the first time. If the Temple men assault one point in strength, they'll be inside!"

"Let them!" blazed Alfric. His eyes were like green fire under the swaying crystal candelabra. "Send messengers to all entrances, Ganimos—tell the men there to retreat, firing the palace to hinder pursuit. We'll gather all our forces here—"

"Burn the palace?" cried the guardsman. "I swore to defend it!"

"You swore to defend the Imperial family too, didn't you? If we can't get outside to help the Empress, you'll be a hell of a use to her! Now go!"

There was no gainsaying the wild power which blazed in the northerner. Ganimos went, shouting. Alfric swung joyously to the barricade, lifting the battle ax he had taken in preference to a shortsword.

The archers and spearmen were sending forth a deadly hail, but they could not halt the enemy charge. Alfric saw that there was cavalry coming against the main entrance, with foot soldiers behind. If they got over or through the flimsy barrier—

"Spears!" he roared. "Spearmen, hold firm!"

He led the way to the barricade top and ranked his guardsmen—they were his now, he was again master of war and equal of kings—in a tight line, with spears braced outward. "Now hold!" he shouted. "Hold, for the sake of Ruho!"

The hengists thundered up the stairs, across the portico, against and up the sides of the barricade in a living wave. For a moment battle raged. The heap of wood and stone chunks broke some of the speed of the charge, but still it shocked against the spear line with a fury that trembled in the walls. Metal clanged, men shouted, hengists screamed in a boiling tide of struggle. Alfric saw a spearman fall, spitted on a lance. He snatched the shaft and thrust it into the throat of the hengist breaking through—with all his straining force he rammed it home, and steed and rider tumbled back.

The cavalry broke, hengists bucking, refusing to hit that gleaming line again. The Temple infantry line scattered as the maddened animals trampled into it. Householders were streaming into the antechamber, and Alfric's nostrils quivered to the first acrid whiffs of smoke. With a burning palace behind them, the Imperials need have less fear of an attack from the rear.

"The infantry will be up against us in a moment," panted Ganimos.

"Aye, we'd better charge out while they're still disorganized," said Alfric. "We'll assault the Temple itself. And pray your Moons help comes ere we're cut down!"

"We'll die like men, anyway," said Ganimos, "not like beasts in a trap. Thank you for that, Stranger."

"Then—hai, Hildaborg!" Alfric plunged over the barricade.

The Household guards followed, a wave that formed into a wedge and plunged across the gardens. The finest warriors of Valkarion hit the wavering Temple forces like a spear going home.

Ax and sword! Spear and arrow! Clang and roar of metal, whirring weapons, rushing blood—shouts and curses, screams, deep-throated oaths—death unchained in the gardens of Valkarion!

Alfric led the way at the point of the wedge, smiting, smiting. No man could stand before his raging fury—his ax was a dazzle and thunder before him. Hewing, hewing, he led the Household forth.

"Hildaborg! Hai, Hildaborg!" The war cry shouted over the hills, rang in echoes with the clamor of metal and shock of combat. "Hildaborg!"

These Householders fought like demons, thought Alfric dimly as he struck at the faces and bodies which loomed briefly out of night and shadow into the red dance of fire. How they fought! But—Ruho, if he only had a levy of Aslakan axmen behind him now!

They won through to the bridge—through and over, in a dash that drove the few guards before it like dry leaves before a gale. Alfric turned gasping to Ganimos. "Hold the bridge," he said. "As soon as we're all over, hold the bridge. That'll protect our rear from cavalry—hengists can't go through that steep gully. And when the foot soldiers have gathered enough wits to come after us that way, you can throw spears down on top of them."

"Aye, your majesty." The title came without thought to the soldier's lips, as he saluted and turned to hail a squad to stay with him.

Alfric led the assault of the rest on the Temple. There were fewer guards on this side of the gully. He hewed at one and felt the shock of the splitting skull through his arms and shoulders, rattling his teeth. Howling, he yanked the weapon free and brought it up to knock aside a sword-thrust and beat the foeman to earth.

Back the Household drove the guards, back to the scowling walls of the Temple. Weird battle, in darkness and cold, with the moons and the great rising flames for fitful illumination. Strange, to trade blows with men who were only red highlights against the roaring night. For a timeless interval, it was all clamor and death and flying steel.

But the Household was being carved away—man after man fell—and now the palace besiegers were streaming through the gully, Ganimos and his squad cut off on the bridge—hai, Hildaborg, it had been a lovely fight but it was nearing its end.

Alfric looked up at the mighty sky, and he saw the majestic shield of Dannos slip over Amaris. Her light was cut off, the hilltop grew dimmer—the Moons were mated.

"O Hildaborg, if only—"

He looked along the wall, against which he now had his back, and saw the torches which swept up the hill, saw the dark mass of humanity and heard its beast cry for blood. And his heart leaped into his throat, and he laughed aloud under Dannos, for here was life again.

"Hai, Hildaborg!" he roared.

The remaining troopers heard him and lifted their weary heads to see. They answered his cry, then, and hewed a way to where he stood. And now the dismayed Temple forces were breaking—the Household swept along the walls toward the Temple gates.

Battle raged there, as the rebel guards and the blood-howling mob bore down on the garrison. Fire was already licking at the rafters where flame arrows had struck; the Temple would soon stand aflame even as the palace was burning, as the Empire was burning and sundering. The two pillars of Valkarion were crashing to earth, and what would be left when they were gone?

By the leaping fire-blaze, Alfric saw the torn and trampled bodies of priests and slaves. He recognized one battered face and stooped over for a closer look. Therokos lay dead. His wound somehow bandaged and braced, his body cased in armor, he lay where he had fallen.

Well, the High Priest had been a brave man in his way—Alfric gave him warrior's salute and passed on to join the fight.

An armored figure astride a great war-hengist was leading the charge. Even without hearing that lovely voice crying its challenge, Alfric would have known her. He sprang forward, crying out, and seized the bridle, pulling her aside just as the gate defense broke and the attackers burst into the Temple.

"I told you to stay in a safe place!" he raged. Huge and bloodsmeared, his lean face painted red by the rising fires, his eyes like green ice in the moonlight, he stood looking up at her.

Hildaborg laughed. "You're still a poor fool, Alfric," she said. "Could I stay at home while you were fighting for me?"

She took off her helmet. Her dark hair streamed down over his face as she leaned forward to kiss him.

In the sky, Dannos swept past Amaris and swung eastward toward the horizon.

Dawn came, chill and gray, full of weariness and the sobbing of women. Alfric stood leaning on a spear, atop the flat roof of Bronnes the merchant, and looked out over the city. A leather cloak hung from his broad shoulders against the thin bitter dawn-wind. His face was drawn into bleak lines.

To him came Hildaborg, lovely in the cold colorless light, her unbound locks floating in the breeze. He looked at her in a vague wonder as to how many women she really was. The passionate lover of the tavern, the haughty queen who had faced the captive guard and the captor priest, the wild war-goddess of the battle—and now this girl, slim and fair and mysterious, with wind-cooled cheeks and a secret laughter behind her eyes—which was the real one? Or were they all Hildaborg? And would he ever know?

She touched his arm. "We've won," she whispered.

"Aye—won," said Alfric tiredly. "Won what? The Temple is down, but so is the palace, and there's still riot and looting in the city."

"It will pass. Victory was dearly bought, but now it is ours. And you, Alfric, are ruler of Valkarion."

"I—a heathen outlander?"

"After last night, the Household and the guards will follow you to hell and back. And the rest—" she smiled shyly—"will follow me, who follow you myself."

"A big task. Too big, perhaps, for the son of an Aslakan peasant." Alfric smiled crookedly down at Hildaborg. "Tis more for you, who are born a queen. Best I continue my travels."

"The queen," she said firmly, "needs a king. You have come to the end of your wandering, Alfric." She laughed, a clear beautiful sound in the quiet morning. "You have no choice, my dear. The Sibyl grudgingly admits that the Fortieth Dynasty, 'sons of the heathen,' will be among the greatest. But how can you have sons without—"

Alfric grinned. "I surrender," he said. "Who am I to challenge the Fates?"

Down in the street a hengist, escaped from his owner in the rioting, whinnied his greeting to the early sun.