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 thehills when Alfric saw Valkarion below him. He reined in his hengist andsat for a moment scouting the terrain with the hard-learned caution ofmany wandering years.
Save for himself, the broad highway that flung its time-raddled lengthdown the rock slope was empty. On either hand, the harsh gulliedhills stretched away to the dusky horizon, wind whispering in grayscrub and low twisted trees. Here and there, evening fires glimmeredred from peasants' huts, or the broken columns of temples in ruinsthese many thousand years loomed against the darkening greenish-blue.Behind him, the land faded toward the raw naked desert from which hehad come. A falkh hovered on silent wings far above him, watching for amovement that might mean prey—otherwise he was alone.
Still—he felt uneasy. A prickling not due to the gathering coldtingled along his spine, and he had spent too much of his life in thenearness of death to ignore such warnings.
He looked ahead, down the great road. It twisted and swooped betweenthe fantastically wind-carven crags, a dim white ribbon in thedeepening twilight. The smooth stone blocks were cracked apart byages so long that the thought made his head reel, and in places theharsh wiry vegetation had grown through and over it, but still the oldImperial Way was there. The ancients had built mightily.
Halfway down the huge slope of hillside, the road ran into Valkarioncity. Below that level, the cliffs dropped sharply, white with oldsalt-streaks, to the dead sea-bottoms—a vast depression, sand and saltand thin bitter plant-growth, reaching out to the sunset horizon.
Lights were winking on in the city. It was not far, and Alfric hadno 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 holdhim from it save—
The hengist whickered and stamped its broad cloven hoofs. Its eyesrolled uneasily, and Alfric's hand slid to his sword hilt. If the beastalso sensed a watchfulness—
He caught the stir in the thick brush-clump out of the corner of oneeye. Only a hunter would have noticed it; only a rover at once, withoutstopping to think, would have struck spurs into his mount. The hengistleaped, and the dart whispered past Alfric's face.
One scratch from the poisoned missile of the southern blowguns wasenough to kill a man. Alfric yelled, and flung his hengist at thebrush. The sword whined from its scabbard, flamed in his hand.
Two men slipped from the thicket as he crashed into it. They wereof a race foreign even to these southlands, small and lithe andamber-skinned. They wore only loincloths; all hair had been shaved fromtheir heads and bodies, and the iron slave-collars were about theirnecks. Vaguely, Alfric was aware of the brands on their foreheads, butat the moment he was only concerned with their weapons.
One skipped aside, raising the blowgun to his lips. Alfric yankedthe javelin from its holster by his saddle and launched itleft-handed—through the slave's belly and out his back.
Steel hissed beside him as the other swung with a scimitar. The hengistscreamed as the blade cut its sleek gray hide. The forehoofs lashedout, the great hooked beak snapped, and th