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.]