Taking a couple of quick, upward, backward steps, he launched himself into the air with all the power of his legs. And when two hundred and thirty pounds of man, dressed in eighty or ninety or a hundred pounds of steel, leaps from a height of eight or ten feet upon a group of other men, those other men go down. Righting himself quickly, Tedric sprang toward the priest and swung; swung with all the momentum of his mass and speed and all the power of his giant frame; swung as though he were concentrating into the blow all his hatred of Sarpedion and everything for which Sarpedion stood--which in fact he was. And what such a saber-scimitar, so driven, did to thin, showy copper armor and to the human flesh beneath it, is simply nothing to dwell upon here. "HOLD!" he roared at the mercenaries, who hadn't quite decided whether or not to resume the attack, and they held. "Bu ... bub ... but you're dead!" the non-com stuttered. "You _must_ be--the great Sarpedion would...." "A right lively corpse I!" Tedric snarled. "Your Sarpedion, false god and coward, drinker of blood and slayer of the helpless, is weak, puny, and futile beside my Llosir. Hence, under Llosir's shield and at Llosir's direction, I shall this day kill your foul and depraved god; shall send him back to the grisly hell from whence he came. "Nor do I ask you to fight for me. Nor would I so allow; for I trust you not, though you swore by all your gods. Do you fight for pleasure or for pay?" A growl was the only answer, but that was answer enough. "He of Sarpedion who paid your wages lies there dead. All others of his ilk will die ere this day's sunset. Be advised, therefore; fight no more until you know who pays. Wouldst any more of you be split like white-fish ere I go? Time runneth short, but I would stay and oblige if pressed." He was not pressed. Tedric whirled and strode away. Should he get his horse, or not? No. He had never ridden mighty Dreegor into danger wearing armor less capable than his own, and he wouldn't begin now. The Temple of Sarpedion was a tall, narrow building, with a far-flung outside staircase leading up to the penthouse-like excrescence in which the green altar of sacrifice was. Tedric reached the foot of that staircase and grimly, doggedly, cut his way up it. It was hard work, and he did not want to wear himself out too soon. He might need a lot, and suddenly, later on, and it would be a good idea to have something in reserve. As he mounted higher and higher, however, the opposition became less and less instead of greater and greater, as he had expected. Priests were no longer there--he hadn't seen one for five minutes. And in the penthouse itself, instead of the solid phalanx of opposition he had _known_ would bar his way, there were only half a dozen mercenaries, who promptly turned tail and ran. "The way is clear! Hasten!" Tedric shouted, and his youthful squire rushed up the ramp with his axe and hammer.