"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 "The Empress--the Empress, and the heathen--_We've found them_--" The crowd had withdrawn, milling around the edges of the forum, too frightened and confused to help.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.