_Tonight, so spake the Temple Prophecy,
a sword-scarred Outlander would come
riding, a Queen would play the tavern
bawd, and the Thirty-ninth Dynasty should
fall with the Mating of the Moons!_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories July 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sun was low in the west and a thin chill wind was blowing along the
hills when Alfric saw Valkarion below him. He reined in his hengist and
sat for a moment scouting the terrain with the hard-learned caution of
many wandering years.
Save for himself, the broad highway that flung its time-raddled length
down the rock slope was empty. On either hand, the harsh gullied
hills stretched away to the dusky horizon, wind whispering in gray
scrub and low twisted trees. Here and there, evening fires glimmered
red from peasants' huts, or the broken columns of temples in ruins
these many thousand years loomed against the darkening greenish-blue.
Behind him, the land faded toward the raw naked desert from which he
had come. A falkh hovered on silent wings far above him, watching for a
movement that might mean prey--otherwise he was alone.
Still--he felt uneasy. A prickling not due to the gathering cold
tingled along his spine, and he had spent too much of his life in the
nearness of death to ignore such warnings.
* * * * *
He looked ahead, down the great road. It twisted and swooped between
the fantastically wind-carven crags, a dim white ribbon in the
deepening twilight. The smooth stone blocks were cracked apart by
ages so long that the thought made his head reel, and in places the
harsh wiry vegetation had grown through and over it, but still the old
Imperial Way was there. The ancients had built mightily.
Halfway down the huge slope of hillside, the road ran into Valkarion
city. Below that level, the cliffs dropped sharply, white with old
salt-streaks, to the dead sea-bottoms--a vast depression, sand and salt
and thin bitter plant-growth, reaching out to the sunset horizon.
Lights were winking on in the city. It was not far, and Alfric had
no wish to sleep in the open or under some peasant's stinking roof.
So--why not go ahead? The city, his goal, was there, and naught to hold
him from it save--
The hengist whickered and stamped its broad cloven hoofs. Its eyes
rolled uneasily, and Alfric's hand slid to his sword hilt. If the beast
also sensed a watchfulness--
He caught the stir in the thick brush-clump out of the corner of one
eye. Only a hunter would have noticed it; only a rover at once, without
stopping to think, would have struck spurs into his mount. The hengist
leaped, and the dart whispered past Alfric's face.
One scratch from the poisoned missile of the southern blowguns was
enough to kill a man. Alfric yelled, and flung his hengist at the
brush. The sword whined from its scabbard, flamed in his hand.
Two men slipped from the thicket as he crashed into it. They were
of a race foreign even to these southlands, small and lithe and
amber-skinned. They wore only loincloths; all hair had been shaved from
their heads and bodies, and the iron slave-collars were about their
necks. Vaguely, Alfric was aware of the brands on their foreheads, but
at the moment he was only concerned with their weapons.
One skipped aside, raising the blowgun to his lips. Alfric yanked
the javelin from its holster by his saddle and launched it
left-handed--through the slave's belly and out his back.
Steel hissed beside him as the other swung with a scimitar. The hengist
screamed as the blade cut its sleek gray hide. The forehoofs lashed
out, the great hooked beak snapped, and the slave lay a bloody ruin on
the Imperial Way.
Alfric reined in his prancing mount and looked around, breathing hard.
An ambush--by the bear of Ruho, they'd meant to kill him!
But--why?
A poor solitary wanderer was no worthwhile quarry for footpads--anyway,
these weren't outlaws but slaves; they must have been set here with
orders to destroy some specific person. But no one in Valkarion knew
Alfric--he was a stranger without friend or enemy.
Had they mistaken him for someone else? That would be hard to do even
in this dim light; he was too plainly a barbarian outlander. It made no
sense. By Luigur, it made no sense!
He leaned over, studying the dead men. They were secretive even in the
sprawled puppet-like helplessness of death; he could learn nothing.
Except--hold, what was that owner's brand--
A double crescent.
_The_ double crescent!
The knowledge shocked home like a spear-thrust, and Alfric sat silent
for a long moment with the wind ruffling his night-black hair. The
double crescent--the sign of the Two Moons--that meant the slaves were
Temple property. They'd been under orders of the priesthood of the
Moons, which was the old Imperial faith and still the state religion of
Valkarion.