"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—thebarbarian—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 werehisnow, 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.