her side of the aisle, and plunged a knife into Volna's back,
killing her instantly.

The people roared, and rose up. Like a tide they swept toward
Prokliam, the seneschal who had wanted to be prime minister.

"No, no!" he cried. "No, please. You don't understand. ... I see it now ...
what was wrong with my thinking ... you don't know yet ... you don't
know ... to you she was still the Princess Volna, loyal, true ... you
don't understand, please."

The wave rolled over Prokliam the seneschal, leaving him battered and
bloody and dead in its wake.

* * * * *

The strong, whipping motion of Bram Forest's arm made a wall of steel
of his whip-sword. Try as he might, with all the skill at his command,
Retoc could not dent that wall. But, he thought, there was another
way. Slowly, desperately, he maneuvered Bram Forest back toward
Bontarc, who was sitting in the sand and using all his remaining
energy to hold the life blood in his veins, his fingers clamped,
vise-like, about his own arm.

Bram Forest's arm blurred up, down, to either side. He wove a web of
death. It was brawn against skill, he knew--and the strength of his
arm might win! Retoc was sweating. Retoc was not the cool swordsman he
had been moments before. Desperately, Retoc sought an opening, and
found none. True, his superior footwork was forcing Bram Forest back
across the sand, but what did that matter? Last time they dueled he
had made the mistake of meeting Retoc on his own grounds as greatest
swordsman of Tarth. This time....

His legs caught against something. He fell heavily.

Retoc's sword-point flashed down.

Bram Forest rolled over, stood up with sand blinding his eyes. For
precious moments he could see nothing but could only spin with the
whip-sword; slashing air in all directions, hoping Retoc couldn't
strike through the wall of steel.

Then, slowly, vision returned to his stinging eyes. Bontarc lay
stretched out on the sand now, unconscious, the blood pumping from his
severed artery. If he bled like that for more than a few moments, he
would die. If he died, and if Nadia rose in its wrath against Abaria,
then all that Bram Forest had dreamed of, not revenge against Abaria
for a wrong done, but eternal peace on Tarth, would be lost....

He took the offensive, weaving his wall of steel toward Retoc. The
Abarian thrust his own sword, and withdrew it, and parried, and lunged
and thrust again. The wall of steel