"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The crowd had withdrawn, milling around the edges of the forum, too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.
Strength came back, a bleak resolve not to go down without one more
fight. His brain began whirring, the old cold craftiness of his
turbulent lifetime surged forward ... hopeless. They were caught, they
were done; all his struggles were the vain writhings of a beast in a
cage.
"So this ends it." Hildaborg's voice was weary. Then she smiled a
little. "But we made a good try, Alfric." And warmly: "And we have
loved each other. That is enough."
"It is not," he answered. "But it is something."
"Silence!" commanded the priest.
Now they were on the hillcrest, the mighty walls of the Temple looming
before them. Alfric saw it aswarm with slaves and guards and priests of
all degrees. The gong-beat was a steady, tremendous crashing--it seemed
to fill the world with its brazen clamor. High rose the chant of the
Moon Wedding.
The warrior glanced aside, over to the palace. There was a bridge
spanning the gully between the two hillcrests, and guards were on it.
Other guards, city and Temple, were besieging the palace; he saw their
fires in a ring about it. They were setting up a great ballista whose
stones, he knew, would bring the walls down in ruin.
From the hilltop he could see over the moon-whitened desert and the
vast reach of the old sea-bottom. Once it had been blue and alive,
glittering with sunlight, the long waves rolling in to crash in foam
and thunder on a dazzling beach. The harbor of Valkarion had been
crowded with ships from all the world, a forest of tall masts, a wild
perfumery of salt and tar and the spices of the south. And beyond, the
land had been green, and white clouds had sailed through a soft blue
summer sky.
* * * * *
Well, it was gone--the world was dried into desert and scrubby forest
and harsh meadowland, sand blew in the ancient beds of rivers and seas,
the air was thin and chill and held a bitter tang of rust. The cities
were in ruins, the Empire was a shadow, and man was gone back to a few
wretched remnants, sinking into barbarism and death.
Alfric looked up to the cold, splendid night sky. There was a tradition
from the wise ancients, he had once been told, that those swarming
bright star-hosts were other worlds and suns, happier, maybe, than
this. It was some consolation.
The Moons were near their mating now. Bright Dannos was sweeping
triumphantly down on pale Mother Amaris; he would cover her and then
pass on, and out of that wedding would come the fate of the world. Cold
fate, dark destiny--night and famine and death, the moons hurtling over
a world sunk into final oblivion.
Well, men died, sometime or other, and all they could do about it was
to meet the end bravely. Alfric squared his shoulders and marched into
the Temple.
There was a long corridor, at the end of which he saw a vast room
flashing in gold and silver and fiery jewels, draped with the costliest
ancient tapestries. Even then, Alfric's eyes gleamed greenly. To loot
that room!
They turned off along another hall, and then down a stone-cut flight of
steps into the Temple dungeons. Alfric had been in enough jails before
not to find the damp, rough-hewn rock tunnels strange, but Hildaborg
shuddered and pressed closer to him.
A scream echoed down the corridor, rose and fell and died raggedly into
the echoes. The priest smirked. "A heretic is being shown the error of
his ways," he said unctuously. "He blasphemed against the Moons and
swore he would abide by the Empress."
"Then the gods abide by him," said Hildaborg defiantly.
The guards thrust them into a cell, little more than a cave chipped
out of the hill's heart, and locked their chains to staples in the
walls. They were held barely able to move, facing each other with a few
scant inches between--miles between, a world between, thought Alfric
wearily--he would never kiss her again--
The guards clanged the door shut and left them in utter darkness.
Hildaborg's voice trembled, but she spoke bravely: "What can we do?"
"Nothing, now." The barbarian strained against his chains, felt their
solidity, and relaxed. "Wait for a chance, maybe. Otherwise--die."
"I don't want to die, Alfric. I want to live, I want to see the sky and
feel the wind and bear your sons."
"I don't enjoy the thought of death either, dearest. If we had fled to
Aslak--"
"But we didn't, and for myself I am still glad. Though that you should
die too--" Her voice broke, and he heard her quiet sobbing in the dark.
He tried to find words, but they were awkward. So he fell into silence.
Presently the door opened again. A man came in with only two
torch-bearing Temple slaves accompanying. Alfric looked at his
magnificent robes and knew him for Therokos the High Priest.
* * * * *
He was tall, stoop-shouldered, a little on the fat side but well
muscled underneath. His face was wide and heavy, sallow under the high
shaven forehead, the mouth hard and thin, the eyes small and black and
glittering-cold. When he spoke, his voice was wondrous, a deep organ
which he played like a master musician.
"So we meet again, your majesty," he said, and bowed. There was little
mockery in his tones; he seemed straightforward and businesslike.
Hildaborg did not answer. She stood with her beauteous form in its
ragged soldier's tunic pressed against the wall. Her sweat-dampened
black hair clung to her forehead, fell down her shoulders in a shining
wave. In the restless torchlight, her face was white and drawn,
streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears, but she gave the
High Priest glance for glance and her lips were steady.
Therokos looked Alfric's tall form up and down. "And so you are the
conqueror of the prophecy," he murmured. "A mighty man--but just how
did you think you could do it? Who are your allies in the city? What
was your plan?"
"I am Alfric of Aslak, and I came here without friends or plan, knowing
nothing of any prophecy," answered the barbarian coldly. "And you
are a misbegotten son of a she-garm, with whose head I will yet play
football."
"Come now," said Therokos softly, "surely you do not expect me to
believe you are here by mere chance? Your cause is lost, you are
doomed, but you can save yourself the inquisition and die easily if
you will tell us what you know."
"I know nothing, you jerrad!"
"You may know more after the inquisitioners have worked on you awhile,"
said Therokos coldly. Then turning to Hildaborg, his voice suddenly
rich and warm, throbbing with love and pity: "My lady, my lady, you do
not know how I regret this. That the Empress of Valkarion should, even
for dire necessity, be thus humiliated is the greatest sorrow of my
life."
Hildaborg's lip curled. "I see you weeping," she said coldly.
"But I do, my lady--my heart is ashes within me. Only need drove me
to this--and it is not yet too late to repent, your majesty. What the
Moons have taken, the Moons can restore.
"Surely, my lady," said Therokos reasonably, "you can see the absolute
necessity of my actions. Under the law, you could not rule, and there
was no Imperial heir. Without a strong hand, leaderless Valkarion would
have split under the quarreling of the nobles and the lawlessness of
the commons, easy prey for barbarian enemies such as this man--and
the Sibyl's warning would have come true. With the Imperium gone, the
Temple, sole remaining pillar of Valkarion, _must_ bear the burden of
state."
"In other words," said Hildaborg coldly, "you will have yourself
anointed Theocrat."
"The Moons have seen fit thus to honor my unworthiness," said Therokos.
"But it would still be well if we should unite our forces. You have
many loyal friends, my lady, myself not the least of them. If you will
but wed me, we can together unite the factions in the city and build
the Empire anew."