des swarmed to gain the seats above.

* * * * *

A living wave of blood-hungry men swarmed into the stands and fell upon
the already wavering ranks of defenders. The entire bowl was now a
maelstrom of swirling bodies, legs and arms. Panic-stricken spectators,
few of them armed, rose from their benches and rushed headlong for the
exits, trammeling, pushing, fighting to gain the streets, to escape the
raving horde of crazed demons.

And, seemingly everywhere at the same time, Tharn, Katon and Vulcar
fought shoulder to shoulder, their knives rising and falling, their
spears licking out to take lives and spread further the reign of terror
they had fostered.

Twice, Tharn caught sight of Gorlat, blond hair finally disarranged,
weaving among the tiers like a cat, his only weapon a long, thin knife.
And as priest after priest sought futilely to keep that long blade from
his throat, Tharn knew, now, why Vulcar had said few could equal that
young man with such a weapon. How many died that day with throats slit
by that knife, only Gorlat knew--and he was never to tell.

It had happened shortly after Tharn had caught his second glimpse of the
steadily smiling youth. Gorlat had just made a kill, and as he stood
erect, a thrown spear came from nowhere to catch him full in the chest.
Gorlat had staggered back to sink into a sitting position on an empty
bench. Dazedly he had raised a hand to wipe away the red stains of his
own blood from that once spotless tunic--then slumped back and moved no
more.

There were other men of Tharn's force who fell, never to rise again;
but for each who died, five enemies went to join him. Bodies of slain
priests were everywhere--draped across seats, hanging over the arena
wall, lying in the aisles. Warriors loyal to Pryak had died in droves
and lay glaring at the sky with sightless eyes.

At last there was none within the amphitheater other than the dead, the
wounded, and the blood-splashed figures of the rebels who stood panting
from their efforts, their eyes on Tharn and his two lieutenants.

Of those three, Vulcar alone had been wounded. An arrow had creased his
shoulder close to his neck, and blood from the cut had stained one side
of his chest a fast-darkening crimson. But his eyes were bright with
satisfaction and his lips were curled in grim content.

"Urim would have enjoyed this!" he said, and his smile widened. "Now, on
to the palace and the temple to