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1.
The man moved silently through the shadows,
keeping always to the darkest places. He moved as
an animal might, his body poised for instant action,
a big hand on the hilt of the longsword by his side.
His eyes darted from a doorway to the far corner,
where the wind blew a length of scarlet silk hanging
from the wall. Caution was in his great body, for he
knew that should he be seen this night, death would
be his reward.

Niall of the Far Travels was not afraid, though he
knew that he would be killed, and in no pleasant
way, should anyone discover him, or guess where he
went — and why.

For fair Amyrilla of the golden hair had been condemned
to die by order of Thyra, queen in Urgrik
where Lurlyr Manakor was king. Amyrilla was the
favorite concubine of Lurlyr Manakor, and Thyra
was jealous of her barbaric beauty. And so Thyra
had prevailed upon Lurlyr Manakor to offer her up
to the grim god Korvassor in his splendid temple in
Urgrik.

Amyrilla was not yet dead. Her death would come
in hours, when the priests of Korvassor gathered in
the temple to summon up their god. There would be
no eyes to see that death, other than those of the
priests of Korvassor. Amyrilla would be dragged
screaming into the maw of the grim god, to be devoured,
and only Lurlyr Manakor wo grieve for
her.

Well, that was not quite true. Niall would grieve as
well, for in the weeks that he had been here in Urgrik,
serving under Lurlyr Manakor, Niall had come
to know pretty Amyrilla, and had loved her for her
gentle ways. Yet now she was to die, abandoned by
all save Niall himself.

His huge hand tightened on his swordhilt. Ahead
of him, he could see the temple. Its tall towers rose
upward almost to the low-hanging clouds, and
where the moon shone with silver. The great oaken
doors of the temple were locked and bolted; it would
be no easy task to win through those doors, to release
Amyrilla from the golden clasps that held her
and then take her out of the temple, and even out of
Urgrik.

Sweat touched the brow of the giant youth. It was
not a warm night, the breezes sweeping the streets
carried in their touch the hint of coming winter. Yet
the sweat stood out on his forehead, for he knew the
price he must pay were he to be discovered.

His fur-edged warboots made no sound as he ran
from one dark shadow to the next, nor did the
chains that held his scabbard jingle. Nearer he came
to the temple, ever nearer, and from time to time he
paused to stand motionless listening.

No man save himself walked these deserted
streets, due to the edict which Lurlyr Manakor had
issued. This night of sacrifice must be a silent one.
All Urgrik must weep as Lurlyr Manakor wept for
the loss of Amyrilla. No man must venture forth
upon the streets; only the guards which patrolled
them, to make sure the edict was obeyed.

So far, Niall had seen no sign of the guards.

Yet they were here — somewhere.

He paused now at the wall which ran around the
vast temple. One leap at that wall and he would be
over it, into the temple grounds themselves. From
the ground to the temple would be a quick run. Ah,
but could he escape discovery in that brief time? Did
eyes watch the temple grounds for any rescue attempt?

He did not know. He cared only because he must
avoid discovery.

Niall drew breath. It was now or not at all. He
must make the attempt, he must rush that wall and
go over it, and if he were seen, why then — he would
have to fight. And a fight meant he would never rescue
that girl with the long golden hair.

He ran. His hands went up to the coping of the
wall and next moment he was outlined against the
sky. Then he was over and dropping down into a bed
of gorgeous pimalotus blooms. He dropped to his
knees and waited, heart hammering.

These was no outcry, no rush of soldiers, of
guards. He heard no weapons drawn. Slowly he rose
and moved forward, and now he went with more
confidence, to the nearest temple doorway. His hand
touched the great iron handle, and he turned it. The
door swung outward and he slipped inside.

There was ebon darkness in here. Only up there by
the altar was there any light. Pallid candleflames
glowed there, surrounding an almost naked girl who
hung in golden chains between two ivory posts.
Long yellow hair covered her features, for her head
hung low, as though she slept.

This was Amyrilla.

Niall sighed. Then he moved forward, his warboots
making no sound on the pavingstones. As he
walked through the darkness, his hand fumbled in
the leather pouch at his side, in which he had put the
picklock that he had made earlier this day against
the moment of need.

In the last bit of darkness he paused, studying the
temple. It was not yet time for the priests to come
with their prayers and exhortations to Korvassor, to
entice him out of the worlds wherein he dwelt, but
that time was soon. He would have to act swiftly,
without thought to consequences.

Niall sprang forward. In a bound he was before
the girl, was fumbling with the golden manacles
about her wrists. His touch roused her, she lifted her
head and stared at him through the golden strands of
her long hair. Her blue eyes were wide with terror.
Yet that terror faded at sight of him.

“Niall,” she breathed.

“Be quiet, girl,” he growled.

He worked swiftly, thrusting in his picklock, turning
it until he heard the metallic click that told him
the manacle was opening. With his left hand around
Amyrilla, he held her even as he probed at the other
manacle with his right hand.

In moments, she was free.

Yet as she slumped against him, to be lifted
against his chest, he heard the faint chanting of the
priests. They were coming now, with their incense
burners and their acolytes, to summon up Korvassor.

Niall muttered under his breath as he lifted the girl
and tossed her over a shoulder. His eyes went to left
and right of the great altar where stood the gigantic
statue of dread Korvassor. For an instant, he seemed
as though turned to stone.

I cannot carry her out the way I came! We would
be seen, and herself recaptured when the guards
came to slay me. His thoughts ran in a circle, like
mice chasing their tails.

Behind the altar, Niall! And — quickly!

The voice sprang to life inside his head, but — he
knew that voice. It was the sweet tones of, Lylthia,
that girl he had met in Angalore! But Lylthia was
not human. No! She was the flesh and blood manifestation
of Emelkartha the Evil. Emelkartha, who
had taken a fancy to the big barbarian who had
aided him in the ruins that had been Kor Magnon,
months before!

He leaped. Like a wild animal he leaped, and he
ran as runs the wild tiger, gracefully and with easy
strength. Straight for the altar he went and then he
dodged around behind it.

Amyrilla groaned. Niall grinned, for he knew
what a jouncing she was taking, perched on his
shoulder like a sack of meal. Well, he couldn’t help
that. She had to ride where she was, if they were to
get out of this alive.

Yet when they were in the darkness behind the
high. altar, almost under the splayed feet of the statue
of Korvassor, he let her slide down his body so
that she stood before him.

“If you want to live, girl, you’ll be silent.”

He felt her nod, even as she shuddered.

The floor, my love. The floor!

He dropped and felt the pavingstones with gentle
fingers. Ah, here. His fingertips went over the faint
crack, then searched about until he discovered the
sunken handle. He plucked at it, felt it rise up. Gripping
the handle, he yanked upward and a section of
the floor rose.

Niall reached downward, felt a step. Then he
caught at Amyrilla, shoved her into that dark opening.
Sobbing to herself, she went down the stairs. Instantly,
Niall was after her, turning to bring the trapdoor
down behind him so that it fitted level to the
temple floor.

As he did, he heard a faint shuffling, far below.

2.

Amyrilla shrank back against him, whimpering.

Niall growled low in his throat as he pushed past
her, lifting his blade from its scabbard. Whatever
was down here in these underground lairs was something
not quite human. Oh, he had heard tales while
he drank with the other guards in the city taverns;
there had been whispers of the strange beasts which
the priests of Korvassor kept, to be fed with sacrifices,
with slaves who had displeased them in some
way.

He had no idea what these beasts might be like.
He chuckled, thinking that it might be best if
Amyrilla could not see them. If they were as hideous
as was rumored, she might well scream and so alert
the priests as to their whereabouts.

He went down stone steps, half dragging the girl
behind him. Always, his sword was out in front,
ready to be used against whatever might hurl itself
against them. Now that there was an enemy to face,
Niall was calm, ready.

He heard nails scrape stone and then something
flung itself at him. He could not see it, but neither
could it see him. If it had been kept in this darkness
for very long, its eyes might be weak. Ah, but its
hearing would be fantastic.

Something struck the wall a foot away from him.
Niall was aware of an awful stench, and then he was
thrusting with his steel. Straight forward he ran his
blade, felt it drive into flesh.

Something spurted out and splashed up on him.

He drew back his blade, slashed with it, felt its
keen edge going into meat. He had no idea of what
this beast was shaped like, yet it lived, it breathed.
And it could die.

Twice more he drove in with his sword, and each
time he struck home. Now he heard a faint dragging
sound, a hushed and labored breathing, and then the
sound as of a body falling. Niall reached behind
him, caught at the soft hand that lay against his
shoulder, and moved down the stairs.

They came to the bottom of the stairs and moved
along a stone floor in that utter darkness. To a far
wall they went, and grouping along it, Niall discovered
a closed door. Fumbling, he found the latch
and lifted it.

Brightness came in at them, from wall torches
hung here and there along a corridor. Niall urged the
girl through the door and closed it behind him.

“Now where?” she whispered. “Where can we go
where there is any safety for such as us?”

“Na, na. Don’t despair. We’ll find a way.”

Her eyes were big in her pale face. “How? The
queen hates me. She wants me dead. Do you know
what they will do to you for trying to rescue me?”

He grinned, showing his white teeth. “We aren’t
dead yet, girl. I just wish I knew a way out of these
catacombs.”

Then he shrugged. “We might as well go this way
as any.” His hand indicated a stretch of lighted corridor
before him. “Come along, now.”

They went swiftly, with Amyrilla half running to
stay even with him. Along one walkway and then
another they went until even Niall, with his barbaric
sense of direction, confessed himself lost. He had
not the slightest idea of where they were, except only
that they must be somewhere within the temple
grounds.

Yet something told him that they had come too far
for that. Surely, they must have passed from under
the garden walls that surrounded the temple. And if
they had done that, if they could discover an exit,
they might find themselves in the city itself.

In time, they came to a tiny staircase that led upwards.
Niall mounted it with Amyrilla at his heels.
To a door they came, and here Niall paused, debating
within himself whether to open it.

What lay beyond this oaken barrier? More danger?
Would there be an attack from the city guards?
Or would the priests themselves be waiting for them?

Shrugging, Niall caught the handle, moved it. He
stepped out into the night air. High above, the
broken remnants of what had once been a moon
shone down, the clouds since fled westward. The
wind was cool on their faces, with a faint remnant of
salt in it.

The river lay not far away, then. And on that river
would be boats.

Niall paused to scratch his head. His eyes slid sideways
at the girl. He had come far these past few
months; from distant Styrethia to Angelore, and
then on to Urgrik by way of the river Thalamar.
Now he could scarcely stay in Urgrik any longer, certainly
not with Amyrilla.

Therefore, he would risk the river.

“Stay close beside me,” he muttered. “It’s death
for anyone to be caught out of doors this night.”

She nodded understandingly and half-ran beside
him as he angled his long stride toward the riverfront.
The smell of salt grew stronger the closer they
came to the docks, and now they began to hear the
gurgle of waves against the pilings.

At his side, Amyrilla turned to stare back the way
they had come. And she gasped, her fingers tightening
on Niall’s arm. A whimper grew in her throat.

“What’s amiss?” he asked, swinging about.

Two red eyes gleamed in the night sky, above the
temple to Korvassor. Unblinkingly they stared, and
it seemed to Niall that they looked right down inside
him, those eyes, studying this man who had dared to
snatch away the sacrifice that belonged to the god of
Urgrik.

There was no body to those red eyes, just the eyes
themselves, and bile rose up in Niall at the sight. The
priests did not know where their sacrifice had gone,
and so they had enlisted the aid of their god. To
good effect, too. Those red eyes had seen him, had
glimpsed the girl also. Soon now, the priests would
learn where they went.

Niall wasted no time on curses. Their only hope
now was the river and a fast boat to sail on it. He
swung Amyrilla up in a brawny arm and began to
run. He went swiftly, as though he might outrun the
stare of those unblinking eyes.

As he ran, his eyes slid across the boats anchored
in the river, observing their shape, the set of their
masts. He wanted a small ship, a fast one, and he
found it with his stare, after a time. He angled his
run toward an old pier, half rotted, and carried the
girl with him out onto those boards.

An instant he paused, to ask, “Can you swim?”

“Like a darson,” she panted. “But it’s no use!
We —”

He left the pier, plunging downward into the
water. As he did, he released Amyrilla. They went
deep, and when they came to the surface, they struck
out toward the little ship Niall had marked for their
own. Behind them, the city was silent. Too silent,
Niall found himself thinking. Surely, the priests
knew where they were, now. Korvassor would have
told them.

Why then, was there no pursuit? No alarm?

He clambered up onto the ship, reached downward
to help the girl, dragging her up onto the deck.
For an instant they stood together, dripping water
on the deckplanks, staring at those red eyes that
watched them.

Niall ran for the sail, curled about the spar. He
shook it free of its ropes, then caught at the ropes to
raise it. A wind sprang up behind them, filling out
the sail.

“The anchor,” he growled, and the girl ran forward
to catch hold of the chain and lift it upward.

The boat began to move, slowly at first, then more
rapidly as the sail filled out and her keel slid through
the water. With a hand on the tiller, Niall stared off
toward the temple.

The red eyes stared, unblinking.

The priests would be moving now. They would
come for their prey. There would be no escaping
them.

3.
The wind blew even more strongly, and now the
little craft skimmed across the water, heading northward.
Niall stood by the steering-post, his back buffeted
by that wind which was intensifying almost to
the proportions of a gale. On the deck at his feet,
Amyrilla crouched, quivering and moaning. Above
and before them, the sail was being strained almost
to the ripping point by that monstrous gust, while
beneath them the ship fled like a terrified thing.

They headed into darkness, where even the keen
eyes of Niall of the Far Travels were almost blind,
for without the pale light of the ring of matter that
once had been a moon, high above his world, the
night was an ebon blackness all about them. Yet the
ship sailed on, rushing through the water, as though
demon-borne.

Yonder, Niall! There where the light gleams soft
and pale!

Aye, that was Emalkartha again, whispering in his
mind. He stared through the darkness and saw at
last a tiny flicker of light, high up on what seemed to
be cliffs. For all his far travels, Niall had never been
in this corner of his world before, he knew nothing
of its shape. Yet those were cliffs, he felt certain,
and he swung the rudder-pole.

Now that wind abated, grew to a mere breeze, and
within seconds his keel was grating on tiny stones.
Above him and at a distance, he saw that pale light
beckoning. His hand went downward, caught hold
of the girl, raised her to her feet.
 

“Up there,” he growled. “There we can find
safety.”

Her head swung about so she could see where he
was looking, and the breath caught in her throat.
She shrank away from him, lips quivering.

“Not there — no!” she whispered.

Her fear made him glance down at her. “And why
not, girl?”

“There are ruins there — old, old ruins. Men tell
tales of those ruins, and always they speak in whispers.”

“Tales to frighten little children. I tell you, we’re
safe enough. It comes to me that our only means of
escape from Korvassor is to go there, to hide.”

She fought him, trying to escape the hand that
held her wrist. Fright looked out at him from her
eyes, a deadly terror that made him pause even as he
tugged her toward the gunwale. Her face was contorted
her lips drawn back, her nostrils flaring
outward.

“They say — they say that Death waits for anyone
who enters that temple. Hideous death!"

Niall shrugged and nodded back the way they had
come. “Look behind you, Amyrilla. Look!”

She turned her head, saw the distant red eyes
hanging above the temple. Far away they were, yet
they watched. The girl shuddered. And now she
could hear sounds behind her, the rasp and grate of
oars in their locks, the swish and swirl of water
rushing past the prows of ships.

“Men come for us,” growled Niall. “Would you
be taken back to Korvassor, to be — eaten — by
him?”

She whimpered, but she no longer fought the tug
of his hand. She ran beside him to the gunwale, was
lifted and tossed overside onto the pebbled beach. In
a moment Niall was beside her, catching her hand
and leading her across the beach and toward the
cliff.

He could make out a vague path carved out of the
rock itself, leading upward to the top of the cliff. He
went up it slowly, his sword Blood-drinker in his
hand, and with a prayer to Emalkartha on his lips.
Behind him, Amyrilla came, reaching out to touch
him with soft fingertips, to make certain that she did
not lose him.

Now as they went higher and yet higher, he could
feel a difference in the air about him. It was colder,
and seemed filled with tiny motes of light, like fireflies
almost, that seemed to whisper about them as
they climbed. The girl began to whimper aloud now,
and came even closer to his big body.

“The realm of the evil spirits that dwell in the
ruined temple,” she breathed.

Niall scowled. He could not contradict her; for all
he knew, she might be right. Yet Emalkartha had bid
him come here, and to that place where the pale light
glowed he was going. It seemed to him that he was
moving more swiftly, now that he was in among the
tiny lights. They flared and surged, they seemed to
— beckon — to urge him on in the very faintest of
whispers.

He could not understand those whispers, yet he
sensed their friendliness. Once he looked back toward
the river, and saw three warships filled with
soldiers, moving toward his beached vessel. Three
warships! Whoever captained them was complimenting
his fighting abilities. Not even with his
sword Blood-drinker could he hope to withstand so
many warriors.

But perhaps he would not have to fight them. It
might be that in that ruin up above, he could
successfully hide from them. What was it Amyrilla
had said? That Death waited for anyone who went
into what was left of the temple up there? Well,
death waited for them below, too. They couldn’t escape
it, apparently. Still, Emalkartha had brought
them here, and he trusted that goddess.

They came to the top of the cliff, and in the darkness
which was lighted by the tiny little glowings, he
made out a stretch of crumbled rock, of tiny stones.
A dead place, surely! Yet ahead were white columns
and broken bits of wall which once had been — long
ages ago! — the fane of some god.

He walked toward it, sword out and the girl halfrunning
beside him. Behind him, the warriors of
Lurlyr Manakor and his queen were coming ashore,
their weapons out to capture them. And always the
tiny, elfin voices of those faint lights urged him onward,
bidding him hurry, hurry!

Then he was at the rim of what had been a temple,
long ago.

The brightness he had seen from the river shone
eerily, here. Wisps and bits of those tiny lights in the
air outside seemed almost to have coalesced inside
the temple, forming a brilliant nimbus of cold light.
It hung a few feet above the tessalated floor, shimmering,
incandescent, and it appeared to whisper as
the tiny lights had whispered.

“What is this place?” Amyrilla whispered.

“I thought you knew,” he growled.

“I know only what the rumors say. That ages ago
it was a temple to some god or goddess, that it had
been abandoned. Yet — yet here Death waits for any
who enter, who dare to — profane it.”

“And that light?”

The girl shook her head. “I never heard of that.”

Niall stared more closely at that strange, glowing
globe. There seemed to be a life to it — inside it — as
sentient as he himself. He grew aware of a vast intelligence,
it appeared almost to whisper out at him,
urging, commanding. There was an imperiousness to
it that reached outward toward him.

It wanted him to do something.

Yes, he knew that, suddenly. But — what?

He heard faery laughter. Foolish one. Do you
think he can understand you, after so many eons in
which you have lain sleeping? Na, na, Devolian!

There was an utter silence. Yet outside that silence
there was — danger! Something in Niall stirred to it,
and a corner of his mind whispered to him that while
he stood here before this eerie light, armed men were
climbing cliffs for him.

Unless Emalkartha aided him, he was doomed.
Alone, he would never be able to drive away those
warriors who were even now coming for him and
Amyrilla.

“What?” he growled. “Gods! What do you want
me to do?”

Reach inside the light, Niall! Reach and ? grasp!

Niall was dubious. The light surged and waxed
even brighter. It was not hot, but it was cold, numbing.
He could feel that cold, it made him shiver.

But if Emalkartha wanted it —

He shifted his sword to his left hand and reached
out into that brilliance with his right. He touched
nothing, he felt only a paralysing coldness, an arctic
chill that ran up his arm and into his very heart. He
swayed, eyes half closed, knowing that in a moment,
he was going to collapse. No human flesh was ever
meant to stand such cold.
 

And then —

His fingers tightened on something hard.

Draw it forth, Niall of the Far Travels. Draw it
forth!

He yanked his arm free of that brightness.
Clutched in his big hand was a piece of what seemed
to be crystal. It was shapeless, and yet —

Niall scowled. There was shape to this thing. Inside
himself, he knew it. Yet it had been fashioned in
a world which was not of his. As his fingers went
over it, as his eyes studied it, and he found himself
remembering that in his early youth, just when he
had taken up his profession of sell-sword, he had
seen something akin to this thing that he held in his
fingers.

It had been in Styria, when he had ridden with the
Red Guards of Falfarran. They had made a long ride
across a corner of the Lomarrian Desert, which was
reputed to be what was left of a fertile land that had
existed a hundred thousand years before. There had
been a ruined temple in that desert, a thing of
broken columns and shattered walls.

In a part of that ruined fane, he had come upon a
shattered statue. Now if that statue had been whole
and unbroken, it might look like this crystal thing.
Very much like it.

“Devolian,” he whispered.

And in answer, or so it seemed, that crystal thing
grew warmer and comforting. It grew brighter,
radiant, and from within it, he heard the faint music
of a million bells thinly chiming . . .

“Niall!”

He dragged his eyes from the crystal statue to
stare at Amyrilla. She was looking behind him, at
the cliff’s edge, and there was utter terror in her blue
eyes.

Niall swung about.

Moving toward him were several lines of swords-
men, their blades naked in their hands, their faces
illy seen beneath their helmets. On their armor he
could make out the basilisk insignia of the kingdom
of Urgrik. They came slowly but steadily, for their prey
was here in the temple of the forgotten god,
Devolian. There was nowhere for them to run, no
place to hide. All that was needed to do now was at-
tack and subdue them.

Niall grinned. Cold was his grin, and unpleasant.
A few of the men in that front line who saw his gri-
mace, shuddered and knew fear in their hearts. Aye!
They knew the way of Niall of the Far Travels with
his sword Blood-drinker. And they were not eager to
be the first ones to test his swordarm.

Yet they came on, urged by their officers and by
the weight of the men who came behind them.
Sweaty hands worked on swordhilts, getting a firmer
grip. Soon enough they would stand before Niall
and that sword of his. Soon enough.

Niall awaited their coming, his own sword ready.
Slightly behind him was the girl. She was breathing
harshly, yet she was no longer whimpering.

Niall chuckled. “A cleaner death, girl, than being
taken by Korvassor. A couple of slices from those
blades, and we’ll stand together before Father
Thimugor, waiting for his judgment on our lives.”

“They won’t kill us,” she whispered. “They want
us — alive!”

He thrust the crystal into his belt-pouch, closed
the hasp. Then he moved forward to the edge of the
broken pavement, sword in his hand. Behind him
came Amyrilla.

They came then, in a coordinated rush, pale light
glimmering on their swordblades. These were vete-
of the wars of Lurlyr Manakor, who had fought
the savages of the eastern frontiers, who had battled
against the troops of Queen Thalmyra, who had
stood off the hordes of Omar Khan.

Niall went to meet them, sword swinging. Two
men went down before that first sweep of the blade,
then another, and now he stood surrounded, the
ringing clash of steel on steel drowning out the gasps
of and curses of the fighting men. Niall was every-
where, leaping, dodging, ducking a blow and thrust-
ing.

He fought carefully, without seeming plan. Yet
always he manoeuvered his path toward a great pillar,
crumbling away under the weight of the eons,
until at last he put his spine to it so that no man
could come at him from behind, and now he fought
as does the wounded bear, snarling beneath his
breath and thinking only of killing as many of his
adversaries as was possible.

His great, rolling muscles shifted under his tanned
hide as he moved his sword one way and then
another, catching a man rushing in boldly or driving
out to draw blood from another as that man was
seeking to outflank him. He felt a tug at his belt and
knew that Amyrilla was lifting out his dagger, using
it to stab those who came within reach of that sharp
Orravian steel.

The battle was hopeless, of course. Yet perhaps
because of its very hopelessness, Niall fought as he
may never have fought before. No beginner, he, to
the clang and clash of weapons. All his life he had
fought, it was a way of life for him. He took rash
chances, sometimes leaping from the broken pillar
to transfix two men before any could guess his intent,
then leaping back to rest his giant frame against
the crumbled rock obelisk.

Yet he did not die. Swords cut into his flesh, but
these were minor wounds. Blood ran down his
shoulder and sides, and his legs bled too, where
sharp steel had sliced him. Yet he stood tall and
firm, and his swordarm seemed untiring. But there
was a growing weariness inside him, in his blood, in
his muscles. Not much longer could he stand here
against a small army.

There were no arrows shot at him, no spears ap-
peared, they wanted him alive, to offer him up to
Korvassor. He and the girl, these were to be the
sacrifices.

Dawn was in the air, a brightness to the east, when
they rushed him. Half a dozen lines of rested veterans
came forward at the run, shields up. The men
he had been fighting drew back to give them room.
Niall saw them coming, saw the tilted shields locked
together. There would be no escape.

He smiled bitterly. “It ends, Emalkartha,” he
whispered.

His sword came up and he struck with it, but he
hit only those shields, knowing as he did so that
these veterans were using not swords but ropes
against him — nets that would cling to him, that
would hamper his swordarm. He felt their touch, he
tried to evade them, but could not.

They fell about him, faster and faster, as those
veterans flung them. Entangled in those strands, his
swordarm useless, nevertheless he battled on as best
he could until the haft of a dagger struck him be-tween
the eyes.

Niall dropped and lay motionless.

He opened his eyes to the movement of a boat
through water. Amyrilla knelt beside him, his head
on her thigh, her head bent and her tears dropping
slowly on his face. There were many men around
them, armed men. When they saw his eyes staring up
at them, they grinned and moved closer.

“Man, you’re a fool,” one said.

“To risk your life for a dancing girl!”

“But — gods! How you can fight!”

There was no enmity in them, only a mild envy.
And a grim sympathy. They knew how he would die,
chained to those ivory posts, when Korvassor came
to claim him. It would not be a nice death, absorbed
into the god-being.

“More than a score of men dead, two score with
wounds,” one man was muttering, shaking his head.
“I thought no one man could ever cause such havoc
against such fighters as we have in the Borstyrian
Guard.”

“It’s a waste of a good man,” another murmured

You’ve angered Lurlyr Manakor,” a captain
nodded. “Bad enough to offend the queen, which
you did when you stole the girl. But the king — ah,
that was a true mistake.”

Niall growled, “What difference does it make?
I’ll die. A man can die only once.”

“But you won’t die. That is, not actually die.
Whoever is absorbed into Korvassor becomes a part
of him and — lives on.”

Niall shuddered.
 
 
 

4.
He hung from golden chains between two ivory
posts. Beside him, so that he could see her by turning
his head, he could make out the naked body of Amyrilla,
slumped down so that she would have fallen
but for the manacles clasped to her wrists.

From the girl, his eyes went around the temple. It
was dark here, except for the few tapers that were
lighted here and there on the altar. They were the
only ones in the temple. They were the sacrifices,
those who were to be offered up to Korvassor.

Soon now would come the priests. And after
them, Lurlyr Manakor and his queen, Thyra of the
Midnight Hair. The king and queen would come
here to see them taken by the god-being. They would
want to know that their vengeance was complete.

Nial rattled the golden chains that held him prisoner.
The sound of their clashings was loud in the
stillness of the temple. Sweat came out on his forehead
but it was not the sweat of fear but rather that
of fierce fury. He had never been so helpless. Never!

For a moment he thought of biting his wrists, of
letting his blood run out of his body, so as to kill
himself and cheat Lurlyr Manakor of his vengeance
and Korvassor of his flesh. Yet the will to live
pounded strongly within Niall of the Far Travels, he
was not a man to yield himself so shamelessly.

But he did not want to die!

Nor shall you, Niall. Not with myself beside you.

The words were in his mind even as he saw a faint
shimmering, as though faery lights were gathering
before him. And then, shrined in that pale brilliance,
he saw — Emalkartha. No, not Emalkartha but —
Lylthia!

Aye! The goddess stood before him in her human
guise, as once she had appeared in Angalore to the
south, clad only in that bit of rag she had worn
there, when he had rescued her and then, slept as she
fled away to die — apparently — on the death-stone
of the wicked mage, Maylock.

She stepped toward him, smiling. Her arms came
up to go about his neck and her red lips were pressed
against his own. For an instant, he knew utter bliss.
His senses leaped and quivered to the delight of her
caress.

And then, smiling up at him teasingly, she stepped
back, lifting a hand and shaking a finger at him in
mock anger.

“Do you think I would let Korvassor take you?
Do you, Niall? Na, na. Emalkartha is no wanton, to
toss her lover to the gods. There is a plan, Niall. And
you must play a part in it.”

“What part?”

“Nay, now. This I cannot tell — lest you betray to
Korvassor what I have in mind. Just be easy. Act as
though you knew me not. Is this agreed between
us?”

Niall scowled. “Agreed,” he muttered.

The ways of a goddess were strange to mortal
men. He wondered what was in her mind. Yet he did
not wonder long, for she came forward, pressing
herself against him and kissing him again, and once
more Niall knew that strange ecstacy which only
Lylthia — or —Emalkartha — could bring to him.

He heard a distant sound.

At once, Lylthia drew away, laughed softly, and
began to fade. But just before she disappeared, she
raised pink fingers to her mouth and blew him a kiss.

The sound grew louder and now Niall knew it for
the strum of sistrums, the tinkle of bells, the musical
clangor of cymbals. Voices too, he heard, raised in
song.

That chant grew louder and now he could make
out, at the far end of the temple, the procession of
priests who came toward them, served by acolytes.
Candles swayed, lighting their way. Their chant
grew more solemn, raised in worship of the god.

Niall stood firmly on his warbooted feet. He
would meet these priests as he met warriors: head
up, with no fear in his heart. His eyes slid sideways,
toward Amyrilla. The girl was conscious now, rising
to her full height. Yet her lips quivered, and he saw
tears gathering in her eyes.
 
 
 

“I’ll save you,” he muttered. “So stop worrying.”
 
 
 

She gasped, turning to eye him in stunned amazement.
“Save me? But how? You’re chained just as I
am.”

He could not tell her of Lylthia, nor of her promise.
And so he muttered, “There will be a way.
Just trust me.”

Amyrilla sighed, but the color came back into her
cheeks, and she stood more bravely than before. Indeed,
as Niall thought, they both seemed far more
defiant than the occasion warranted. The priests of
Korvassor sensed this defiance, and on their pale
faces smiles sprang into being. Only the high priest,
an old man with long white hair and a beard, gazed
at them dubiously, as though he sensed that their defiance
was based on something other than mere
human courage.

The priests took up their places before the altar.
In low voices they chanted on, but still they waited
Now the great doors at the far end of the temple
opened, and down the broad aisle came armed men,
fanning out as they approached the altar. Behind
them, in gilded palanquins, came King Lurlyr Manakor
and his queen, Thyra the Dark one. They were
here to witness the fit punishment of those who had
transgressed against them.

Lurlyr Manakor stepped from his palanquin when
it came to a halt, and walked forward toward the altar.
He was a big man lately run to fat, but the huge
body and the iron will, which had made him a conqueror
of nations, could still awe the onlookers.

Toward Niall he walked, though his eyes swung
sideways toward the naked body of Amyrilla. In
happier days, she had been his favorite. But since he
had wedded Thyra of the Midnight Hair, he had
been forced to put Amyrilla aside. Even to offer her
up to Korvassor as a sacrifice.

The king sighed once, then twice, and then he
looked at Niall. There was no hate in his eyes, only
pity. In a low voice so that neither the priests nor the
acolytes might hear him, he spoke to the Sellsword.

“I am sorry you failed. If it were up to me, neither
of you would die. I would. set you free and pay you
good gold to see you on your way.” He shook his
head. “But I no longer reign in Urgrik. The priests
of Korvassor rule this city.”

Niall said nothing, yet felt pity for this man in his
heart. He was a conqueror, a fighting man, yet in his
crown city, he was subject to the priests and to his
wife, the Queen Thyra. Lurlyr Manakor eyed him a
moment, then turned away.

Now the curtains of the second palanquin moved,
fluttering. And out stepped Thyra, clad all in ebon
robes, with her long black hair bound with diamonds
and pearls. She was a beautiful woman,
everyone acknowledged that — yet Niall thought to
read cruelty in her hard eyes, in her pale face. She
stood a moment as slavegirls lifted off the jet robe in
which she was swathed. Now she was revealed in a
thin garment of purest black silk in which threads of
gold were cunningly woven. Golden sandals were on
her small feet.

Thyra moved across the flaggings, smiling almost
to herself. Toward Amyrilla she walked, and at her
every step her cruelty became more manifest. Her
lips were drawn back, her eyes became slitted.

She came to a halt. Her hand darted out, clapping
hard against the face of the girl in the golden manacles.
Loud and sharp were the sounds of those
slaps, and Amyrilla’s head was knocked sideways by
their force.

Then Thyra turned toward Niall and now he could
see the hard eyes, the distorted lips. She came toward
him, and for a moment their eyes locked. Hers
were haughty, proud, and still cruel.

“You dared?” she breathed. “You dared to try
and rescue her for whom I had decreed death. Well,
you shall pay the penalty along with her. Remember
Thyra wherever it is that Korvassor takes you.”

She turned and moved away, and now the sistrums
and the flutes began to wail again, very softly.
In was an eerie tune they played on their instruments,
and a cold chill went down Niall’s spine.

They were summoning Korvassor. He had learned
enough about Urgrik and its ways since he had arrived
here to take service with Lurlyr Manakor to
know that much. In hushed whispers over goblets
filled with Kallarian wine, men had spoken of the
temple and that which came into it when the music
played and the priests chanted.

Now the priests were chanting in some long-forgotten
language. The sound of those words made
Niall even colder. What they did here was obscene,
frightful. They were summoning up dread Korvassor,
were offering to him the bodies of a man and a
woman.

Niall rattled his chains as he stretched his big
body. Fury grew inside him, a raw heat that seemed
almost to lift him upward. It was not a human anger
but rather a rage that seeped into him from outside.

“I defy Korvassor!” he bellowed. “Let him come.
I shall destroy this god you worship.”

There was a silence after his outburst. Even the
sistrums and the flutes had stilled. The priests
looked at one another, then at the high priest who
stood motionless, eyes hollowed in his head. Those
eyes burned at Niall, filled with fury and with —
what? Foreknowledge of some awesome doom?
Fear?

Queen Thyra moved from where she had stationed
herself beside Lurlyr Manakor. Her right hand came
up, imperiously. “The man is half-dead with fright.
Why do you hesitate? Continue the ritual.”

The sistrums woke to life, and with them the cymbals.
Loudly they sounded, as though they might
drown out the words of this giant who hung in the
golden manacles. Niall moved his eyes from the
musicians to the priests, to that high priest who regarded
him so dubiously.

There was doubt in his eyes, and worry.

Lurlyr Manakor too, looked uncomfortable. Yet
his queen stood regally proud, her head held high,
her eyes burning with the hate she had for Amyrilla
and this barbarian who hung in the golden chains.

Heat gathered on the altar. Niall felt it as he might
a hot fog, creeping over the tiles, seeping upward
about his legs and hips. To one side, Amyrilla
moaned, as she too felt that awful heat. Soon now,
Korvassor would emerge from whatever worlds he
inhabited and — take them.

Words whispered in his mind, and in answer to
them, Niall stiffened his body, stood upright and
shook the golden chains that held him.

“I defy Korvassor,” he bellowed. “I defy the
wicked one — in the name of Devolian himself!”

The high priest gasped.

Slowly the hot mists crept back. Slowly, slowly.
They surged about his feet, ran up his legs to his hips
and higher. It grew hard to breathe, for those mists
were strangling him, almost suffocating him. Niall
shook himself, rattling the chains.

Now he saw that those before him — the musicians,
the acolytes, the priests themselves — were
drawing backward, away from the high altar. There
was fear in their. eyes as they stared at something behind
Niall. Fear and awe and something of — horror.
Only the high priest stood firm.

Niall swung about, stared. 

Something was forming behind the altar, in the
curved niche that reared high above the statue of
Korvassor. Shapeless and formless it was, black and
evil. Menacing! In the middle of that amorphous
bulk, two red eyes shone forth, unblinkingly.

A coldness settled in Niall.

This was Korvassor, summoned from his hells,
eager to devour that which was being offered to him.
This was the wicked god of Urgrik, he who came
from beyond Time and Space. He-who-devours.

Fear not, Niall! I am with you!

Ah, that was Emalkartha, whispering again in his
mind. Ha! Easy for her to say, not to be afraid. But
by all the Gods! This thing was something out of
nightmare, something which should never have been
born.

What defense could anyone have against it?

The hot mists were all over him now, stifling him.
Yet it seemed to Niall that those mists did not sting
him as fiercely as they had done. It was almost as
though he had become immune to them, or that he
was — protected.

Korvassor bulked huge now, filling the space behind
the altar. He was beginning to flow forward,
emerging onto the altar tiles themselves. Shapeless
he was, and of no certain outlines, yet the menace
that emanated from that gross bulk was as palpable
as the flagstones on which Niall stood.

Ah, now Korvassor was completely out of that
far-distant world he inhabited. His bulk was moving,
sliding — oozing — across the tiles, straight for
his victims. The red eyes studied them hungrily. Almost,
the hulk seemed to drool.

Faster it flowed. Faster!

A tentacle touched Niall, paralysing him. Agony
stabbed inward from his skin, around which that
black tentacle was clasped. Yet Niall did not cry out.
Rather, he stood firm, almost defying this god-being
who had come for him.

Korvassor felt that defiance and was puzzled.

The red eyes grew angry.

More and more of that black bulk flowed forward.
It hovered high above Niall, and paused, waiting.
In another moment, it would dart downward to
surround him, absorb him.

Something stirred, close to Niall. Stirred and —
waited.

Korvassor swooped downward. His tentacles
fashioned arms that stretched out to gather him in.
Swiftly he moved, blotting out all sight from the
waiting Sellsword. Then those dark arms closed on
him.

Niall felt the pain, the agony. He opened his
mouth to scream. No mere man could endure such
pain! His heart pounded, the sweat ran out of his
pores. And yet — and yet — he still stood. And now
— that agony was receding.

Something was flowing out of Naill, something
that ran with the swiftness of water rippling over
brookstones. It went to meet Korvassor, went eagerly,
almost singing as it flowed. Niall shuddered,
knowing suddenly that this was Devolian — Devolian,
whom he had brought here from that abandoned
temple, in that crystal shape.

I am here, black one! You of the red eyes, I am
come at last!

Korvassor screamed.

There was agony in that scream, and despair.
Niall felt those emotions as a distant part of himself,
and he knew that just as Korvassor was experiencing
them, so he was himself, since he was a part of that
god-being.

Then, abruptly, Korvassor spewed him forth.

Niall crumpled on the tiles, staring. No longer
were the golden manacles on his wrists, they lay beside
him on the floor.

High above, the blackness which was Korvassor
wrestled with the thing that was Devolian. Fiercely
they fought. Fiercely! Korvassor sought to retire
into that curving space out of which he had come,
yet always Devolian was there before him, to prevent
it. And now, slowly, Korvassor was weakening. Less
furious were the rushes he made, not so brilliant
were his red eyes. And always, that which was Devolian
closed in about him, surrounding him.

Niall glanced back at the priests.

They stood as though under a spell, only their eyes
being alive. The high priest was very pale, very
frightened. The fear in him was like a living thing.
And to one side, Amyrilla lay unconscious in her
golden manacles. 

Now Korvassor merely writhed in the watery tentacles
that gripped him, squeezing him. The red eyes
were dimmed, almost to extinction. In another moment,
they would disappear.

And then — suddenly — only Devolian stood
upon the tiles.

Transparent he was, a shimmering curtain of brilliant
lights. Niall heard those lights whispering joyously,
radiant with delight, with power. Forward
moved that curtain, quivering, sentient! It poised a
moment above Niall, almost as though contemplating
him.

Downward stretched an arm of those lights,
touched him.

My thanks, man of this world. But for you, I 
should never have been able to trap Korvassor, to
destroy him! 

Niall had never felt so energetic. The power of
Devolian swam through his flesh, his veins. He
straightened, all the agony and its memory gone
from him. He put a hand on his sword, half-lifted it
from the scabbard.

“I have enemies too, Devolian. Let me —” 

Nay, now. These are my enemies as well. 

Forward swept that living curtain, toward the
priests and the acolytes of Korvassor, and when it
touched them, they became shimmering motes of
brightness that faded into nothingness. The high
priest screamed and whirled to flee but Devolian
swept forward, rushed over him — and the high
priest no longer existed.

The curtain poised, moved forward.

Thyra the Dark screamed once, a high shrilling
that reverberated from wall to wall of the temple.
She turned as had the high priest, but the curtain of
lights surged forward, touched and enveloped her.

Niall heard a faint, distant keening. Then — silence.

Slowly now, the curtain faded, and where it had
stood was emptiness.

Niall growled and moved toward Amyrilla. But he
was too slow. Lurlyr Manakor raced forward, his
hand getting a key out of his pouch. It was his hand
that inserted the key, his arms that caught the girl as
she stirred and looked up at him.

“Can you forgive me? It was not I but Thyra and
the high priest who condemned you. They worshipped
Korvassor, it was they who insisted on restoring
the old worship, the giving of sacrifices.”

Amyrilla smiled faintly. “There is nothing to forgive,
Lurlyr. Yet there is thanks to be said — to
Niall.”

Lurlyr Manakor flushed and glanced sideways.
“There is that, of course. And you know how deeply
I am indebted to you, Niall. Ask what you will of
me. Except Amyrilla. Her I mean to marry, to make
my queen.”

Niall shrugged, remembering that he had acted because
of Emalkartha. “No thanks are needed. I did
what — I had to.”

“You shall be given half my kingdom.”

Niall only shook his head. “I’m no ruler. I’m only
a warrior.”

“Then you shall be made general of my armies. I
shall build you a fine castle, I shall fill your chests
with gold and jewels. Come now, walk with us out
of this temple which is no longer a temple. Come,
Niall.”

“In a moment.”

He watched them move down the aisle, arm in
arm. Aye, they were going to be married, to rule together
in Urgrik. But he? He who had helped bring
this all about? What was there for him that he
wanted?
 

It was a whisper in the air, no more. Yet every part
of his body quivered to the sound of that voice.
“Where are you?” he asked hoarsely. 

“Soon I shall come to you, Niall. Soon, now. Be
patient.”

She came out of the shadows, almost naked, still
wearing those bits of rag which she had worn in Angalore.
She was smiling, she was holding out her
arms. And Niall stepped into them.

He held her for a long time, kissing her. Oh, he
knew she would never stay here with him in this
world where he lived. But to have her like this, sweet
and warm and scented, her soft mouth under his,
was reward enough for him who was a sellsword.

Even when she went away from him, blowing him
those kisses, he did not despair. Some day she would
come to him again. For that he lived, for that he
would wait in patience.

— the end —