Weapon in hands, Red Angus led his rabble army up the stone-block roadway steps, upward from the mire and filth of the Lower City, upward to the clean white reaches of the Citadel. The Diktor's personal guards made a sortie against them, but the black mist swept them away. When the Hierarch sent his troops to join those of the Diktor the mist swirled around them once, and then blew away, leaving the Citadel gardens empty of opposition. It was over. They walked through the gardens, into the halls and corridors of the Palace. Men stood weaponless, fright tightening the lines of their faces. Tandor roared, "The Diktor, you foul hounds. Where is he?" Men pointed and at the end of their fingers loomed the great golden bulk of the Audience Chamber. The Diktor and the Hierarch stood before the ruby throne. They were beaten men, expecting death, their cheeks washed an ashen grey. Angus said, "If you've harmed Stasor you'll take a year to die." The Diktor gestured wearily. "He's in chains, in the lower pits. We haven't harmed him. He would not translate the Book of Nard. But even so, dead he was useless to us. Alive, he might have changed his mind." He went on to explain how he had traced Angus' journey in the spectragraph, how his men had followed Angus' course in globe ships to bring the god of Karr to the Citadel. He said, "You were beaten. Whipped. My messengers told me that you were hemmed in, your men chopped to thumbits. And yet--yet you come here--" Madness glinted in the Diktor's eyes. His right hand moved like lightning, and the blue metal of a disintegrator caught fire from the soft luminescence of the walls. The Diktor was swift but Tandor was faster. His hand blurred and a glittering longsword jumped the five feet that separated them. It drove the dead body of the Diktor back three steps to the ruby throne. He fell at its base and a pool of blood grew larger on the floor. The Hierarch shrugged and put a pellet to his mouth. The poison acted with incredible speed. He was falling as the chamber door opened and a gently smiling Stasor entered, leaning on his staff. Angus and Moana stood on the heights of the Citadel and looked down at the Lower City. They saw the thatched roofs no longer, but instead tidy houses, clean streets and healthy children. Men and women walked with pride, their bodies clean, enjoying the new life that Stasor and the Book of Nard could bring them. It would take time, all that. But it would come. Moana moved gently. Her hand caught his. He turned her head up and his lips settled on hers. A hundred feet away, Tandor grinned. "A martyr, I called him," he told the night. He thought of a black-haired noblewoman who had been widowed in the night's fighting. Tandor rubbed his head again and chuckled. He tiptoed from the gardens. * * * * * [Transcriber's Note: No Section III heading in original text.] End of Project Gutenberg's Tonight the Stars Revolt!, by Gardner F. Fox