The Viceroy was alone, now. His blade flickered as though inspired, and two more died under its tireless onslaught. Even more would have died if the head of the conspiracy, a supporter of Young Jim named Rada, hadn't pulled a trick that not even the Viceroy would have pulled. Rada grabbed one of his own men and shoved him toward the Viceroy's sword, impaling the hapless man upon that deadly blade. And, in the moment while the Viceroy's weapon was buried to the hilt in an enemy's body, the others leaped around the dying man and ran their blades through the Viceroy. He dropped to the floor, blood gushing from half a dozen wounds. Even so, his fighting heart still had seconds more to beat. As he propped himself up on one arm, the assassins stood back; even they recognized that they had killed something bigger and stronger than they. A better man than any of them lay dying at their feet. He clawed with one hand at the river of red that flowed from his pierced throat and then fell forward across the stone floor. With his crimson hand, he traced the great symbol of his Faith on the stone--the Sign of the Cross. He bent his head to kiss it, and, with a final cry of "_Jesus!_" he died. At the age of seventy, it had taken a dozen men to kill him with treachery, something all the hell of nine years of conquest and rule had been unable to do. And thus died Francisco Pizarro, the Conqueror of Peru. THE END TO BE READ AFTER YOU HAVE FINISHED "DESPOILERS OF THE GOLDEN EMPIRE." Dear John, It has been brought to my attention, by those who have read the story, that "Despoilers of the Golden Empire" might conceivably be charged with being a "reader cheater"--_i.e._, that it does not play fair with the reader, but leads him astray by means of false statements. Naturally, I feel it me bounden duty to refute such scurrilous and untrue affronts, and thus save meself from opprobrium. Therefore, I address what follows to the interested reader: It cannot be denied that you must have been misled when you read the story; indeed, I'd be the last to deny it, since I _intended_ that you should be misled. What I most certainly _do_ deny is any implication that such misleading was accomplished by the telling of untruths. A fiction writer is, _by definition_, a professional liar; he makes his living by telling interesting lies on paper and selling the results to the highest bidder for publication. Since fiction writing is my livelihood, I cannot and will not deny that I am an accomplished liar--indeed, almost an habitual one. Therefore, I feel some small pique when, on the one occasion on which I stick strictly to the truth, I am accused of fraud. _Pfui!_ say I; I refute you. "I deny the allegation, and I defy the alligator!"