th's called in. Crannar
Jurth contacted him with a midget radio he has up his sleeve; he's in
the palace courtyard now. They haven't brought out the victims, yet,
but Kurchuk has just been carried out on his throne to that platform
in front of the citadel. Big crowd gathering in the inner courtyard;
more in the streets outside. Palace gates are wide open."

"That's it!" Verkan Vall cried. "Form up; the parade's starting.
Brannad, you and Tammand and Stranor and I in front; about ten men
with paralyzers a little behind us. Then Yat-Zar, about ten feet off
the ground, and then the others. Forward--_ho-o!_"

* * * * *

They emerged from the temple and started down the broad roadway toward
the palace. There was not much of a crowd, at first. Most of Zurb had
flocked to the palace earlier; the lucky ones in the courtyard and the
late comers outside. Those whom they did meet stared at them in
open-mouthed amazement, and then some, remembering their doubts and
blasphemies, began howling for forgiveness. Others--a substantial
majority--realizing that it would be upon King Kurchuk that the real
weight of Yat-Zar's six hands would fall, took to their heels, trying
to put as much distance as possible between them and the palace before
the blow fell.

As the procession approached the palace gates, the crowds were
thicker, made up of those who had been unable to squeeze themselves
inside. The panic was worse, here, too. A good many were trampled and
hurt in the rush to escape, and it became necessary to use paralyzers
to clear a way. That made it worse: everybody was sure that Yat-Zar
was striking sinners dead left and right.

Fortunately, the gates were high enough to let the god through without
losing altitude appreciably. Inside, the mob surged back, clearing a
way across the courtyard. It was only necessary to paralyze a few
here, and the levitated idol and its priestly attendants advanced
toward the stone platform, where the king sat on his throne, flanked
by court functionaries and black-robed priests of Muz-Azin. In front
of this, a rank of Chuldun archers had been drawn up.

"Horv; move Yat-Zar forward about a hundred feet and up about fifty,"
Verkan Vall directed. "Quickly!"

As the six-armed anthropomorphic idol rose and moved closer toward its
saurian rival, Verkan Vall drew his needler, scanning the assemblage
around the throne anxiously.

"_Where is the wicked King?_" a voice thu