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                          The Rebel of Valkyr

                           By ALFRED COPPEL

          ... _From the Dark Ages of Space emerged the Second
          Empire ... ruled by a child, a usurper and a fool!
            The Great Throne of Imperial Earth commanded a
          thousand vassal worlds--bleak, starved worlds that
          sullenly whispered of galactic revolt.... At last,
            like eagles at a distant eyrie, the star-kings
             gathered ... not to whisper, but to strike!_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Planet Stories Fall 1950.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


    _Out of the dark ages of the Interregnum emerged the Second Empire.
    Once again in the space of a millennium, the banner of Imperial
    Earth waved above the decimated lands of the inhabited worlds. Four
    generations of conquerors, heirs to the greatness of the Thousand
    Emperors, had recreated the Galactic Empire, by force of arms. But
    technology, the Great Destroyer, was feared and forbidden. Only
    witches, warlocks and sorcerers remembered the old knowledge, and
    the mobs, tortured by the racial memories of the awful destruction
    of the Civil Wars, stoned these seekers and burned them in the
    squares of towns built amid the rubble of the old wars. The
    ancient, mighty spaceships--indestructible, eternal--carried men
    and horses, fire and sword across the Galaxy at the bidding of the
    warlords. The Second Empire--four generations out of isolated
    savagery--feudal, grim; a culture held together by bonds forged of
    blood and iron and the loyalty of the warrior star-kings_....

    --Quintus Bland,

    ESSAYS ON GALACTIC HISTORY.


                                   I

Kieron, Warlord of Valkyr, paced the polished floor angrily. The
flickering lights of the vast mirrored chamber glinted from the
jewels in his ceremonial harness and shimmered down the length of his
silver cape. For a moment, the star-king paused before the tall double
doors of beaten bronze, his strong hands toying with the hilt of his
sword. The towering Janizaries of the Palace Guard stood immobile on
either side of the arching doorway, their great axes resting on the
flagstones. It was as though the dark thoughts that coursed through
Kieron's mind were--to them--unthinkable. The huge warriors from the
heavy planets of the Pleiades were stolid, loyal, unimaginative. And
even a star-king did not dream of assaulting the closed portals of the
Emperor's chambers.

Kieron's fingers opened and closed spasmodically over the gem-crusted
pommel of his weapon; his dark eyes glittered with unspent fury.
Muttering an oath, he turned away from the silent door and resumed his
pacing. His companion, a brawny man in the plain battle harness of
Valkyr, watched him quietly from under bushy yellow brows. He stood
with his great arms folded over the plaits of grizzled yellow hair that
hung to his waist, his deeply-lined face framed by the loosened lacings
of a winged helmet. A huge sword hugged his naked thigh; a massive
blade with worn and sweat-stained hilt.

The lord of Valkyr paused in his angry pacing to glare at his aide.
"By the Great Destroyer, Nevitta! How long are we to stand this?"

"Patience, Kieron, patience." The old warrior spoke with the assurance
of lifelong familiarity. "They try us sorely, but we have waited three
weeks. A little longer can do no harm."

"Three weeks!" Kieron scowled at Nevitta. "Will they _drive_ us into
rebellion? Is that their intention? I swear I would not have taken this
from Gilmer himself!"

"The great Emperor would never have dealt with us so. The fighting men
of Valkyr were ever closest to his heart, Kieron. This is a way of
doing that smacks of a woman's hand." He spat on the polished floor.
"May the Seven Hells claim her!"

Kieron grunted shortly and turned again toward the silent door. Ivane!
Ivane the Fair ... Ivane the schemer. What devil's brew was she mixing
now? Intrigue had always been her weapon--and now that Gilmer was gone
and she stood by the Great Throne....

Kieron cursed her roundly under his breath. Nevitta spoke the truth.
There was Ivane's hand in this, as surely as the stars made Galaxies!

Three weeks wasted. Long weeks. Twenty-one full days since their ships
had touched the Imperial City. Days of fighting through the swarms of
dilettantes and favor-seekers that thronged the Imperial Palace. There
had been times when Kieron had wanted to cut a path through the fawning
dandies with his sword!

Gilmer of Kaidor lay dead a full year and still the new Court was a
madhouse of simpering sycophants. Petitions were being granted by the
score as the favorites collected their long-delayed largess from the
boy-Emperor Toran. And Kieron knew well enough that whatever favors
were granted came through the ambitious hands of the Consort Ivane.
She might not be allowed to wear the crown of an Empress without the
blood of the Thousand Emperors in her veins, but by now no one at Court
denied that she was the fountainhead of Imperial favor. Yet that wasn't
really enough for her, Kieron knew. Ivane dreamed of better things. And
because of all this hidden by-play, the old favorites of the warrior
Gilmer were snubbed and refused audience. A new inner circle was
building, and Kieron of Valkyr was not--it was plain to see--to be
included. He was prevented even from presenting his just complaints to
the Emperor Toran.

       *       *       *       *       *

Other matters, he was told again and again, occupied His Imperial
Majesty's attention. Other matters! Kieron could feel the anger hot
and throbbing in his veins. What other matters could there be of more
importance to a sovereign than the loyalty of his finest fighting men?
Or if Toran was a fool as the courtiers privately claimed, then surely
Ivane had more intelligence than to keep a Warlord of the Outer Marches
cooling his heels in antechambers for three weeks! The Lady Ivane,
herself so proud, should know how near to rebellion were the warrior
peoples of the Periphery.

Under such deliberate provocations it was difficult to loyally ignore
the invitation of Freka of Kalgan to meet with the other star-kings in
grievance council. Rebellion was not alluring to one like Kieron who
had spent his boyhood fighting beside Gilmer, but there was a limit to
human endurance, and he was fast reaching it.

"Nevitta," Kieron spoke abruptly. "Were you able to find out anything
concerning the Lady Alys?"

The grizzled warrior shook his head. "Nothing but the common talk. It
is said that she has secluded herself, still mourning for Gilmer. You
know, Kieron, how the little princess loved her father."

The lord of Valkyr frowned thoughtfully. Yes, it was true enough that
Alys had loved Gilmer. He could remember her at the great Emperor's
side after the battle of Kaidor. Even the conquered interregnal lords
of that world had claimed that Gilmer would have surrendered the planet
if they had been able to capture his daughter. The bond between father
and daughter had been a close one. Possibly Alys _had_ secluded herself
to carry on with her mourning--but Kieron doubted it. That would not
have been Gilmer's way, nor his daughter's.

"Things would be different here," said Nevitta with feeling, "if the
little princess ruled instead of Toran."

Very different, thought Kieron. The foolish Toran bid fair to lose what
four generations of loyal fighters had built up out of the rubble of
the dark ages. Alys, the warrior princess, would add to the glory of
the Imperium, not detract from it. But perhaps he was prejudiced in her
favor, reflected Kieron. It was hard not to be.

He recalled her laughing eyes and her courage. A slim child, direct in
manner and bearing. Embarrassing him before his roaring Valkyrs with
her forthright protestations of love. The armies had worshipped her. A
lovely child--with pride of race written into her patrician face. But
compassionate, too. Gravely comforting the dying and the wounded with a
touch or a word.

Eight years had passed since bloody Kaidor. The child of twelve
would be a woman now. And, thought Kieron anxiously, a threat to the
ascendant power of the Consort Ivane....

       *       *       *       *       *

The tall bronze doors swung open suddenly, and Kieron turned. But it
was not the Emperor who stood there framed in the archway, nor even the
Consort. It was the gem-bedecked figure of Landor, the First Lord of
Space.

Kieron snorted derisively. First Lord! The shades of the mighty
fighters who had carried that title through a thousand of Imperial
Earth's battles must have been sickened by young Toran's ... or
Ivane's ... choice of the mincing courtier who now stood before him.

The more cynical courtiers said that Landor had won his honors in
Ivane's bed, and Kieron could well believe it. Out in the vast
emptinesses of the Edge men lived by different standards. Out there
a woman was a woman--a thing to be loved or beaten, cherished or
enjoyed and cast off--but not a touchstone to wealth and power. Kieron
had loathed Landor on sight, and there was reason enough to believe
that the First Lord reciprocated most completely. It was not wise for
anyone, even a Warlord, to openly scorn the Consort's favorites--but
restraint was not one of the lord of Valkyr's virtues, though even
Nevitta warned him to take care. Assassination was a fine art in the
Imperial City, and one amply subsidized by the First Lord of Space.

"Well, Landor?" Kieron demanded, disdaining to use Landor's title.

Landor's smoothly handsome features showed no expression. The pale eyes
veiled like a serpent's.

"I regret," the First Lord of Space said easily, "that His Imperial
Majesty has retired for the night, Valkyr. Under the circumstances...."
He spread his slender hands in a gesture of helplessness.

The lie was obvious. Through the open doorway of the royal chambers
came the murmuring sound of laughter and the reedy melody of a
minstrel's pipes in the age-old ballad of _Lady Greensleeves_. Kieron
could hear Toran's uncertain voice singing:

    "Greensleeves was all my joy,
    Greensleeves was all my joy,
    And who but Lady Greensleeves?"

Kieron could imagine the boy--lolling foolishly before the glittering
Ivane, trying to win with verses what any man could have for a pledge
of loyalty to the Consort.

The Valkyr glared at Landor. "I'm not to be received, is that it? By
the Seven Hells, why don't you say what you mean?"

Landor's smile was scornful. "You outworlders! You should learn how to
behave, really. Perhaps later...."

"Later be damned!" snapped Kieron. "My people are starving _now_! Your
grubbing tax-gatherers are wringing us dry! How long do you think
they'll stand for it? How long do you imagine _I_ will stand for it?"

"Threats, Valkyr?" asked the First Lord, his eyes suddenly venomous.
"Threats against your Emperor? Men have been whipped to death for much
less."

"Not men of Valkyr," retorted Kieron.

"The men of Valkyr no longer hold the favored position they once did,
Kieron. I counsel you to remember that."

"True enough," Kieron replied scornfully. "Under Gilmer, fighting men
were the power of the Empire. Now Toran rules with the hands of
women ... and dancing masters."

       *       *       *       *       *

The First Lord's face darkened at the insult. He laid a hand on the
hilt of his ornate sword, but the Valkyr's eyes remained insolent. The
huge Nevitta stirred, measuring the Pleiadene Janizaries at the door,
ready for trouble.

But Landor had no stomach for swordplay--particularly with as young and
supple a fighter as the Warlord of Valkyr. His own ready tongue was a
better weapon than steel. With an effort, he forced himself to smile.
It was a cold smile, pregnant with subtle danger.

"Harsh words, Valkyr. And unwise. I shall not forget them. I doubt
that you will be able to see His Majesty, since I do not believe the
tribulations of a planet of savages would concern him. You waste your
time here. If you have other business, you had better be about it."

It was Kieron's turn to feel the hot goad of anger. "Are those Toran's
words or Ivane's dancing master?"

"The Consort Ivane, of course, agrees. If your people cannot pay their
taxes, let them sell a few of their brats into service," Landor said
smoothly.

The die was cast, then, thought Kieron furiously. All hope for an
adjustment from Toran was gone and only one course lay open to him now.

"Nevitta! See that our men and horses are loaded tonight and the ships
made ready for space!"

Nevitta saluted and turned to go. He paused, looked insolently at the
First Lord, and deliberately spat on the floor. Then he was gone, his
spurs ringing metallically as he disappeared through the high curving
archway.

"Savage," muttered Landor.

"Savage enough to be loyal and worthy of any trust," said Kieron; "but
you would know nothing of that."

Landor ignored the thrust. "Where do you go now, Valkyr?"

"Off-world."

"Of course," Landor smiled thinly, his eyebrows arching over pale,
shrewd eyes. "Off-world."

Kieron felt a stab of suspicion. How much did Landor know? Had his
spies pierced Freka the Unknown's counter-espionage cordon and brought
word of the star-kings gathering on Kalgan?

"It cannot concern you where I go now, Landor," said Kieron grimly.
"You've won here. But...." Kieron stepped a pace nearer the resplendent
favorite. "Warn your tax-gatherers to go armed when they land on
Valkyr. Well armed, Landor."

Kieron turned on his heel and strode out of the antechamber, his booted
heels staccato on the flagstones, silver cape flaunting like a proud
banner.


                                  II

Past the tall arch of the Emperor's antechamber lay the Hall of the
Thousand Emperors. Kieron strode through it, the flickering flames of
the wall-sconces casting long shadows out behind him--shadows that
danced and whirled on the tapestried walls and touched the composed
faces of the great men of Earth.

These were brooding men; men who stared down at him out of their
thousand pasts. Men who had stood with a planet for a throne and
watched their Empire passing in ordered glory from horizon to horizon
across the night sky of Earth--men worshipped as gods on outworld
planets, who watched and guided the tide of Empire until it crashed
thundering on the shores of ten thousand worlds beyond Vega and Altair.
Men who sat cloaked in sable robes with diamond stars encrusted and saw
their civilization built out from the Great Throne, tier on shining
tier until at last it reached the Edge and strained across the awful
gulf for the terrible seetee suns of mighty Andromeda itself....

The last few of the men like gods had watched the First Empire crumble.
They had seen the wave of annihilation sweeping in from the Outer
Marches of the Periphery; had seen their gem-bright civilization
shattered with destructive forces so hideous that the spectre of the
Great Destroyer hung like a mantle of death over the Galaxy, a thing to
be shunned and feared forever. And thus had come the Interregnum.

Kieron had no eyes for these brooding giants; his world was not the
world they had known. It was in the next chamber that the outworld
warrior paused. It was a vast and empty place. Here there were but
five figures and space for a thousand more. This was the Empire that
Kieron knew. This Empire he had fought for and helped secure; a
savage, darkling thing spawned in the dark ages of the Interregnum,
a Galaxy-spanning fief of star-kings and serfs--of warlocks and
spaceships--of light and shadow. This Empire had been born in the agony
of a Galaxy and tempered in the bitter internecine wars of reconquest.

Before the image of Gilmer of Kaidor, Kieron stopped. He stood in
silence, looking into the face of his dead liege. The hour was late
and the Hall deserted. Kieron knelt, suddenly filled with sadness.
He was on his way to rebellion against the Empire that he had helped
this stern-faced man to expand and hold--rebellion against the power
of Imperial Earth, personified by the weak-faced boy standing draped
in the sable mantle of sovereignty in the next niche. Kieron looked
from father to son. By its composure and its nearness to the magnetic
features of the great Gilmer, the face of young Toran seemed to draw
character and strength. It was an illusion, Kieron knew.

The young Valkyr felt driven hard. His people hungered. Military
service was no longer enough for the Imperial Government as it had been
for decades. Money was demanded, and there was no money on Valkyr. So
the people hungered--and Kieron was their lord. He could not stand by
and see the agony on the faces of his warrior maids as their children
weakened, nor could he see his proud warriors selling themselves into
slavery for a handful of coins. The Emperor would not listen. Kieron
had recourse only to the one thing he knew ... the sword.

He bowed his head and asked the shade of Gilmer for forgiveness.

       *       *       *       *       *

A slight movement caught his battle-sharpened eye as someone stirred
behind a fluted column. Kieron's sword whispered as it slid from the
scabbard, the gemmed hilt casting shards of light into the dimness of
the colonnade.

Treading softly, Kieron eased his tall frame into the shadows, weapon
alert. The thought of assassination flashed across his mind and he
smiled grimly. Could it be that Landor had his hirelings after him
already?

Kieron saw the shadowy shape slip from the colonnade out onto the great
curving terrace that bordered the entire west wing of the Palace. Eyes
narrowed under his black brows, the lord of Valkyr followed.

The stars gleamed in the moonless night, and far below, Kieron could
see the flickering torchlights of the Imperial City fanning out to the
horizon like the spokes of some fantastic, glittering wheel. The dark
figure ahead had vanished.

Kieron sheathed his sword and drew his poniard. It was far too dark for
swordplay, and he did not wish to risk letting the assassin escape.
Melting into the shadows of the colonnade again, he made his way
parallel to the terrace, alert for any sign of movement. Presently,
the figure appeared again beside the balustrade, and the Valkyr moved
swiftly and quietly up behind. With a cat-like movement, he slipped his
free arm about the slight shape, pulling it tight against himself. The
poniard flashed in his upraised hand, the slender blade reflecting the
starlight.

The weapon did not descend....

Against his forearm, Kieron felt a yielding softness, and the hair that
brushed his cheek was warm and perfumed.

He stood transfixed. The girl twisted in his grasp and broke free with
a gasping cry. Instantly, a blade gleamed in her hand and she had
launched herself at the Valkyr furiously. Her voice was tight with rage.

"Murdering butcher! _You dare...!_"

Kieron caught her upraised arm and wrenched the dagger from her grasp.
She clawed at him, kicking, biting, but never once calling aloud for
aid. At last Kieron was able to pin her to a column with his weight,
and he held her there, arms pinioned to her sides.

"You hellcat!" he muttered against her hair, "Who are you?"

"You know well enough, you murdering lackey! Why don't you kill me and
go collect your pay, damn you!" gritted the girl furiously. "Must you
manhandle me too?"

Kieron gasped. "_I_ kill _you_!" He caught the girl's hair and pulled
her head back so that her features would catch the faint glow of light
from the city below. "Who are you, hellcat?"

The light outlined his own features and the Arms of Valkyr on the
clasp of his cloak at his throat. The girl's eyes widened. Slowly the
tenseness went out of her and she relaxed against him.

"Kieron! Kieron of Valkyr!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Kieron was still alert for some trick. Landor could have hired a female
assassin just as well as a man.

"You know me?" he asked cautiously.

"_Know_ you!" She laughed suddenly, and it was a silvery sound in the
night. "I _loved_ you ... beast!"

"By the Seven Hells, you speak in riddles! Who are you?" the Valkyr
demanded irritably.

"And I thought you had come to kill me," mused the girl in
self-reproach. "My own Kieron!"

"I'm not your Kieron or anyone else's, Lady," said Kieron rather
stiffly, "and you'd better explain why you were watching me in the Hall
of Emperors before I'll let you go."

"My father warned me that you would forget me. I did not think you
would be so cruel," she taunted.

"I knew your father?"

"Well enough, I think."

"I've had a hundred wenches--and known some of their fathers, too. You
can't expect me to...."

"Not _this_ wench, Valkyr!" the girl exploded furiously.

The tone carried such command that Kieron involuntarily stepped back,
but still keeping the girl's hands pinned to her sides.

"If you had spoken so on Kaidor, I'd have had the skin stripped from
your back, outworld savage!" she cried.

Kaidor! Kieron felt the blood drain away from his face. This, then,
was ... Alys.

"Ha! So you remember now! Kaidor you can recall, but you have forgotten
me! Kieron, you always were a beast!"

Kieron felt a smile spreading across his face. It was good to smile
again. And it was good to know that Alys was ... safe.

"Highness...."

"Don't 'Highness' me!"

"Alys, then. Forgive me. I could not have known you. After all it has
been eight years...."

"And there have been a hundred wenches ..." mimicked the girl angrily.

Kieron grinned. "There really haven't been that many. I boasted."

"Any would be too many!"

"You haven't changed, Alys, except that you...."

"Have grown so? Spare me that!" She glared at him, eyes flaming in the
shadows. Then suddenly she was laughing again, a silvery laugh that
hung like a bright thread in the soft tapestry of night sounds. "Oh,
Kieron, it is good to see you again!"

"I thought to hear from you, Alys, when we reached Earth--but there was
nothing. No word of any kind. I was told you were in seclusion still
mourning Gilmer."

       *       *       *       *       *

Alys bowed her head. "I will never stop mourning him." She looked up,
her eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. "Nor will you. I saw you
kneeling inside. I thought then that it might be you. No one kneels
to Gilmer now but the old comrades." She walked to the balustrade and
stood looking out over the lights of the Imperial City. Kieron watched
the play of emotions over her face, caught suddenly by her beauty.

"I tried to reach you, Kieron--tried hard. But my servants have been
taken from me since I was caught spying on Ivane. And I'm kept under
cover now, permitted out only after dark--and then only on the Palace
grounds. Ivane has convinced Toran that I'm dangerous. The people like
me because I was father's favorite. My poor stupid little brother! How
that woman rules him...!"

Kieron was aghast. "You spied on Ivane? In heaven's name, why?"

"That woman is a born plotter, Kieron. She isn't satisfied with a
Consort's coronet. She's brewing something. Emmissaries have come to
her from certain of the star-kings and _others_...."

"Others?"

Alys' voice was hushed. "A warlock, Kieron! He has been seeing Ivane
privately for more than a year. An awful man!"

Superstition stirred like a quickening devil inside the Valkyr. The
shuddering horror of the dark and bloody tales he had heard all his
life about the warlocks who clung to the knowledge of the Great
Destroyer rose like a wave of blackness within him.

Alys felt the same dark tide rising in her. She moved closer to Kieron,
her slim body trembling slightly against his. "The people would tear
Ivane to pieces if they knew," she whispered.

"You _saw_ this warlock?" asked Kieron, sick with dread.

Alys nodded soundlessly.

Kieron fought down his fears and wondered uneasily what Ivane's
connection could be with such a pariah. The warlocks and witches were
despised and feared above all other creatures in the Galaxy.

"His name?" Kieron asked.

"Geller. Geller of the Marshes. It is said that he is a conjurer of
devils ... _and that he can create homunculi_! Out of the very filth of
the marshes! Oh, Kieron!" Alys shuddered.

An awful plan was forming in Kieron's mind. He was thinking that Ivane
must be stripped of the sigils and powers of this devil-man. With such
powers at her command there might be nothing impossible of attainment.
Even the crown of the Imperium itself....

"Where," Kieron asked slowly, "can this warlock be found?"

"On the street of the Black Flame, in the city of Neg ... on Kalgan."

"_Kalgan!_" Kieron's heart contracted. Was there a connection? Kalgan!
What had Ivane to do with that lonely planet beyond the dark veil of
the Coalsack? Was it coincidence? Out of all the thousands of worlds in
space ... Kalgan.

"Is there something wrong, Kieron? You know this man?"

Kieron shook his head. It had suddenly become more than imperative
that he go to Kalgan. The mystery of the Imperial Consort's connection
with a warlock of Kalgan must be unraveled. And the star-kings were
gathering....

The Valkyr was suddenly taken with a new and different fear. If Alys
had spied on Ivane, then she must be in danger here. Ivane would never
tolerate interference with her plans from Gilmer's daughter.

"Alys, are you a prisoner here?"

"More, I'm afraid," the girl said sadly. "I'm a reminder to Toran of
the days of our father. One that he would like to eliminate, I think."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kieron studied her in the starlight. His eyes sought the thick golden
hair that brushed her shoulders, the glittering metallic skirt that
hung low on her hips, outlining the slim thighs. He watched the
graceful line of her unadorned throat, the bare shoulders and breasts,
the small waist, the flat, firm stomach--all revealed by the studied
nakedness of the fashions of the Inner Marches. This was no child. The
thought of her in danger shook him badly.

"Toran would not dare harm you, Alys," said Kieron uncertainly. There
had been a time when he could have said such a thing with perfect
assurance, but since the death of Gilmer, the Imperial City was like an
over-civilized jungle--full of beasts of prey.

"No, Toran wouldn't ... alone," said Alys; "but there are Ivane and
Landor." She laughed, suddenly gay; her eyes, seeking Kieron's, were
shining. "But not now! You are here, Kieron!"

The Valkyr felt his heart contract. "Alys," he said softly, "I leave
Earth tonight. For Kalgan."

"For Kalgan, Kieron?" Alys' eyes widened. "To seek that warlock?"

"For another reason, Alys." Kieron paused uneasily. It was hard to
speak to Gilmer of Kaidor's daughter about rebellion. Yet he could not
lie to her. He temporized.

"I have business with the lord of Kalgan," he said.

Alys' face was shadowed and her voice when she spoke was sad. "Do the
star-kings gather, Kieron? Have they had all they can stand of Toran's
foolish rule?"

Kieron nodded wordlessly.

The girl flared up with a sudden imperious anger. "That fool! He is
letting the favorites drive the Empire to ruin!" She looked up at
Kieron pleadingly. "Promise me one thing, Kieron."

"If I can."

"That you will not commit yourself to any rebellion until we have
spoken again."

"Alys, I...."

"Oh, Kieron! Promise me! If there is no other way, then fight the
Imperial House. But give me one chance to save what my father and his
father died for...!"

"And mine," added Kieron sombrely.

"You know that if there is no other way, I won't try to dissuade you.
But while you are on Kalgan, I'll speak to Toran. Please, Kieron,
promise me that Valkyr will not rebel until we have tried everything."
Her eyes shone with passion. "Then if it comes to war, I'll ride by
your side!"

"Done, Alys," said Kieron slowly. "But take care when you speak to
Toran. Remember there is danger here for you." He wondered briefly
what Freka the Unknown would think of his sudden reluctance to commit
the hundred spaceships and five thousand warriors of Valkyr to the
coming rebellion. A thought struck him and quickly he discarded it.
For just an instant he had wondered if Geller of the Marshes and the
mysterious Freka the Unknown might be the same.... Stranger things had
happened. But Alys had described Geller as old, and Freka was known to
be a six-and-one-half foot warrior, the perfect 'type' of the star-king
caste.

"One thing more, Alys," Kieron said; "I will leave one of my vessels
here for your use. Nevitta and a company will remain, too. Keep them by
you. They will guard you with their lives." He slipped his arm about
her, holding her to him.

"Nevitta?" Alys said with a slow smile. "Nevitta of the yellow braids
and the great sword? I remember him."

"The braids are greying, but the sword is as long as ever. He can guard
you for me, and keep you safe."

The girl's smile deepened at the words 'for me' but Kieron did not
notice. He was deep in planning. "Be very careful, Alys. And watch out
for Landor."

"Yes, Kieron," the girl breathed meekly. She looked up at the tall
outworld warrior's face, lips parted.

But Kieron was looking up at the stars of the Empire, and there was
uneasiness in his heart. He tightened his arm about Alys, holding her
closer to him as though to protect her from the hot gaze of those fiery
stars.


                                  III

The spaceship was ancient, yet the mysterious force of the Great
Destroyer chained within the sealed coils between the hulls drove it
with unthinkable speed across the star-shot darkness. The interior was
close and smoky, for the only light came from oil lamps turned low to
slow the fouling of the air. Once, there had been light without fire
in the thousand-foot hulls, but the tiny orbs set into the ceilings
had failed for they were not of a kind with the force in the sealed,
eternal coils.

On the lower decks, the horses of the small party of Valkyr warriors
aboard stomped the steel deck-plates, impatient in their close
confinement; while in the tiny bubble of glass at the very prow of the
ancient vessel, two shamen of the hereditary caste of Navigators drove
the pulsing starship toward the spot beyond the veil of the Coalsack
where their astrolabes and armillary spheres told them that the misty
globe of Kalgan lay.

Many men--risking indictment as warlocks or sorcerers--had tried to
probe the secrets of the Great Destroyer and compute the speed of
these mighty spacecraft of antiquity. Some had even claimed a speed
of 100,000 miles per hour for them. But since the starships made the
voyage from Earth to the agricultural worlds of Proxima Centauri in
slightly less than twenty-eight hours, such calculations would place
the nearest star-system an astounding _two million eight hundred
thousand_ miles from Earth--a figure that was as absurd to all
Navigators as it was inconceivable to laymen.

The great spaceship bearing the Warlord of Valkyr's blazon solidified
into reality near Kalgan as its great velocity diminished. It circled
the planet to kill speed and nosed down into the damp air of the grey
world. The high cloud cover passed, it slanted down into slightly
clearer air. Kalgan did not rotate: in its slow orbit around the red
giant parent star, the planet turned first one face, and then another
to the slight heat of its sun. Great oceans covered the poles, and the
central land mass was like a craggy girdle of rock and soil around the
bulging equator. Only in the twilight zone was life endurable, and
the city of Neg, stronghold of Freka the Unknown, was the only urban
grouping on the planet.

Neg lay sullen in the eternal twilight when at last Kieron's spaceship
landed outside the gates and the debarkation of his retinue had begun;
the spaceport, however, was ablaze with flares and torches, and the
lord of Kalgan had sent a corps of drummers--signal honors--to greet
the visiting star-king. The hot, misty night air throbbed with the
beat of the huge kettle-drums, and weapons and jewelled harness flashed
in the yellow light of the flames.

At last the debarkation was complete, and Kieron and his warriors
were led by a torch-bearing procession of soldiery into the fortified
city of Neg--along ancient cobbled streets--through small crowded
squares--and finally to the Citadel of Neg itself. The residence of
Freka the Unknown, Lord of Kalgan.

The people they passed were a silent, sullen lot. Dull, brutish faces.
The faces of slaves and serfs held in bondage by fear and force. These
people, Kieron reflected, would go mad in a carnival of destruction if
the heavy hand of their lord should falter.

He turned his attention from the people of Neg to the massive Citadel.
It was a powerful keep with high walls and turreted outworks. It spoke
of Kalgan's bloody history in every squat, functional line. A history
of endless rebellion and uprising, of coups and upheavals. Warrior
after warrior had set himself up as ruler of this sullen world only
to fall before the assaults of his own vassals. It had ever been the
policy of the Imperial Government never to interfere with these purely
local affairs. It was felt that out of the crucibles of domestic strife
would arise the best fighting men, and they, in turn, could serve the
Imperium. As long as Kalgan produced its levy of fighting men and
spaceships, no one on Earth cared about the local government. So Kalgan
wallowed in blood.

Out of the last nightmare had come Freka. He had risen rapidly to power
on Kalgan--and _stayed_ in power. Hated by his people, he nevertheless
ruled harshly, for that was his way. Kieron had been told that this
warrior who had sprung out of nowhere was different from other men. The
Imperial courtiers claimed that he cared nothing for wine or women, and
that he loved only battle. It would take such a man, thought Kieron
studying the Citadel, to take and hold a world like Kalgan. It would
take such a man to want it!

If Freka of Kalgan loved bloodshed, he would be happy when this coming
council of star-kings ended, the Valkyr reflected moodily. He knew
himself how near to rebellion he was, and the other lords of the Outer
Marches, the lords of Auriga, Doorn, Quintain, Helia--all were ready to
strike the Imperial crown from Toran's foolish head.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kieron was escorted with his warriors to a luxurious suite within the
Citadel. Freka, he was informed, regretted his inability to greet him
personally, but intended to meet all the gathered star-kings in the
Great Hall within twelve hours. Meanwhile, there would be entertainment
for the visiting warriors, and the hospitality of Kalgan. Which
hospitality, claimed the hawk-faced steward pridefully, was without
peer in the known Universe!

An imp of perversity stirred in Kieron. He found that he did
not completely trust Freka of Kalgan. There was a premeditated
cold-bloodedness about this whole business of the star-kings' grievance
council that alerted him to danger. There should have been less
smoothness and efficiency in the way the visitors were handled, Kieron
thought illogically, remembering the troubles he, himself, had gone to
whenever outworld rulers had visited Valkyr. He was suddenly glad that
he had warned Nevitta to use extreme caution should it be necessary to
bring Alys to Kalgan. It was possible he was being over-suspicious, but
he could not forget that Alys herself had seen a warlock from Kalgan
in familiar conversation with the woman really to blame for the danger
that smouldered red among the worlds of the Empire.

The drums told the Valkyr that the other star-kings were arriving.
Torches flared in the courtyards of the Citadel, and the hissing roar
of spaceships landing told of the eagles gathering.

Through the long, featureless twilight, the sounds continued. Freka
made no appearances, but the promised entertainment was forthcoming
and lavish. Food and wine in profusion were brought to the apartments
of the Valkyrs. Musicians and minstrels came too, to sing and play the
love songs and warchants of ancient Valkyr while the warriors roared
approval.

Kieron sat on the high seat reserved for him and watched the dancing
yellow light of the flambeaux light up the stone rooms and play across
the ruddy faces of his warriors as they drank and gamed and quarreled.

Dancing girls were sent them, and the Valkyrs howled with savage
pleasure as the naked bodies, glistening with scented oils, gyrated in
the barbaric rhythms of the sword dances steel whirring in bright arcs
above the tawny heads. The long, gloomy twilight passed unregretted
in the warm, flame-splashed closeness of the Citadel. Kieron watched
thoughtfully as more women and fiery vintages were brought into the
merrymaking. The finest wines and the best women were passed hand
to hand over the heads of laughing warriors to Kieron's place, and
he drank deeply of both. The wines were heady, the full lips of the
sybaritic houris bittersweet, but Kieron smiled inwardly--if Freka the
Unknown sought to bring him into the gathering of the star-kings drunk
and satiated and amenable to suggestion, the lord of Kalgan knew little
of the capacity of the men of the Edge.

The hours passed and revelry filled the Citadel of Neg. Life on the
outer worlds was harsh, and the gathering warriors took full measure
of the pleasures placed at their disposal by the lord of Kalgan. The
misty, eternal dusk rang with the drinking songs and battle-cries, the
quarreling and lovemaking of warriors from a dozen outworld planets.
Each star-king, Kieron knew, was being entertained separately, plied
with wine and woman-flesh until the hour for the meeting came.

The sands had run their course in the glass five times before the
trumpets blared through the Citadel, calling the lords to the meeting.
Kieron left his men to enjoy themselves, and with an attendant in the
harness of Kalgan made his way toward the Great Hall.

Through dark passageways that reeked of ancient violence, by walls hung
with tapestries and antique weapons, they went; over flagstones worn
smooth by generations. This keep had been old when the reconquering
heirs to the Thousand Emperors rode their chargers into the Great Hall
and dictated their peace terms to the interregnal lords of Kalgan.

       *       *       *       *       *

The hall was a vast, vaulted stone room filled with the smoky heat
of torches and many bodies. It teemed with be-jewelled warriors,
star-kings, warlords, aides and attendants. For just a moment the lord
of Valkyr regretted having come into the impressive gathering alone.
Yet it was unimportant. These men were--for the most part--his peers
and friends; the warrior kings of the Edge.

Odo of Helia was there, filling the room with his great laughter; and
Theron, the Lord of Auriga; Kleph of Quintain; and others. Many others.
Kieron saw the white mane of his father's friend Eric, the Warlord
of Doorn, the great Red Sun beyond the Horsehead Nebula. Here was an
aggregation of might to give even a Galactic Emperor pause. The warlike
worlds of the Edge, gathered on Kalgan to decide the issue of war
against the uneasy crown of Imperial Earth.

Questions coursed through Kieron's mind as he stood among the
star-kings. Alys--pleading with Toran--what success could she have
against the insidious power of the Consort? Was Alys in danger? And
there was Geller, the mysterious warlock of the Marshes. Kieron felt
he must seek out the man. There were questions that only Geller could
answer. Yet at the thought of a warlock--a familiar of the Great
Destroyer--Kieron's blood ran cold.

The Valkyr looked about him. That there was power enough here to crush
the forces of Earth, there was no doubt. But what then? When Toran
was stripped of his power, who would wear the crown? The Empire was
a necessity--without it the dark ages of the Interregnum would fall
again. For four generations the mantle of shadows had hovered over the
youngling Second Empire. Not even the most savage wanted a return of
the lost years of isolation. The Empire must live. But the Empire would
need a titular head. If not Toran, the foolish weak boy, then who?
Kieron's suspicions stirred....

A rumble of tympani announced the entrance of the host. The murmuring
voices grew still. Freka the Unknown had entered the Great Hall.

Kieron stared. The man was--magnificent! The tall figure was muscled
like a statue from the Dawn Age; sinews rippling under the golden hide
like oiled machinery, grace and power in every movement. A mane of hair
the color of fire framed a face of classic purity--ascetic, almost
inhuman in its perfection. The pale eyes that swept the assemblage
were like drops of molten silver. Hot, but with a cold heat that seared
with an icy touch. Kieron shivered. This man was already half a god....

Yet there was something in Freka that stirred resentment in the Valkyr.
Some indefinable lack that was sensed rather than seen. Kieron knew he
looked upon a magnificent star-king, but there was no warmth in the man.

Kieron fought down the unreasonable dislike. It was not his way to
judge men so emotionally. _Perhaps_, thought the Valkyr, _I imagine the
coldness._ But it was there!

Yet when Freka spoke, the feeling vanished, and Kieron felt himself
transported by the timbre and resonant power of the voice.

"Star-kings of the Empire!" Freka cried, and the sound of his words
rolled out over the gathering like a wave, gaining power even as he
continued: "For more than a hundred years you and your fathers have
fought for the glory and gain of the Great Throne! Under Gilmer of
Kaidor you carried the gonfalon of Imperial Earth to the Edge and
planted it there under the light of Andromeda itself! Your blood was
shed and your treasure spent for the new Emperors! And what is your
reward? _The heavy hand of a fool!_ Your people writhe under the burden
of excessive taxation--your women starve and your children are sold
into slavery! You are in bondage to a foolish boy who squats like a
toad on the Great Throne...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kieron listened breathlessly as Freka of Kalgan wove a web of
half-truths around the assembled warriors. The compelling power of the
man was astounding.

"The worlds writhe in the grip of an idiot! Helia, Doorn, Auriga,
Valkyr, Quintain...." He called the roll of the warrior worlds. "Yes,
and Kalgan, too! There is not enough wealth in the Universe to satiate
Toran and the Great Throne! And the Court laughs at our complaints! At
us! The star-kings who are the fists of the Empire! How long will we
endure it? How long will we maintain Toran on a throne that he is too
weak to hold?"

_Toran_, thought Kieron grimly, always Toran. Never a word of Ivane or
Landor or the favorites who twisted Toran around their fingers.

Freka's voice dropped low and he leaned out over the first row of
upturned faces. "I call upon you--as you love your people and your
freedom--to join with Kalgan and rid the Empire of this weakling and
his money-grubbing and neglect!"

In the crowd, someone stirred. All but this one seemed hypnotized. It
was old Eric of Doorn who stepped forward.

"You speak treason! You brought us here to discuss grievances, and you
preach rebellion and treason, I say!" he shouted angrily.

Freka turned cold eyes on the old warrior.

"If this is treason," he said ominously, "it is the Emperor's
treason--not ours."

Eric of Doorn seemed to wilt under the icy gaze of those inhuman eyes.
Kieron watched him step back into the circle of his followers, fear
in his aging face. There was a power in Freka to quell almost any
insurrection here, thought the Valkyr uneasily. He, himself, was bound
by the promise he had made to Alys, but it was only that that kept him
from casting in his lot with the compelling lord of Kalgan. Such a
feeling was unreason itself, he knew, and he fought against it, drawing
on his reserves of information to strengthen his resolve to obstruct
Freka if he could. Yet it was easy to understand how this strange man
had sprung out of obscurity and made himself master of Kalgan. Freka
was a creature made for leadership.

Kieron stood away from the crowd and forced himself to speak. All his
earlier suspicions were growing like a suffocating cloud within him.
Someone was being fooled and used, and it was _not_ the lord of Kalgan!

"You, Freka!" he cried, and the lords turned to listen. "You shout of
getting rid of Toran--but what do you offer in his place?"

Freka's eyes were like steel now, glinting dully in the light of the
wall-torches.

"Not myself. Is that what you feared?" The fine mouth curled
scornfully. "I ask no man to lay down his life so that _I_ may take for
myself the Great Throne and the sable mantle of Emperor! I renounce
here and now any claim to the Imperial Crown! When the time is right, I
will make my wishes known."

The crowd of star-kings murmured approvingly. Freka had won them.

"A vote!" someone cried. "Those who are with Freka and against Toran! A
vote!"

Swords leaped from scabbards and glittered in the torchlight while the
chamber rang to a savage cheer. Here was war and loot to satisfy the
savage heart! The sack of Imperial Earth herself! Even old Eric of
Doorn's sword was reluctantly raised. Kieron alone remained silent,
sword sheathed.

Freka looked down at him coldly.

"Well, Valkyr? Do you ride with us?"

"I need more time to consider," said Kieron carefully.

Freka's laughter was like a lash. "Time! Time to worry about risking
his skin! Valkyr needs time!"

Kieron felt his quick anger surging. The blood pounded in his temples,
throbbing, pulsing, goading him to fight. His hand closed on the hilt
of his sword and it slipped half out of the sheath. But Kieron caught
himself. There was something sinister in this deliberate attempt to
ruin him--to brand him a coward before his peers. A man faced two
choices here, apparently; follow Freka into rebellion, or be branded
craven. Kieron glared into the cold eyes of the Kalgan lord. The
temptation to challenge him was strong--as strong as Kieron's whole
background and training in the harsh warrior-code of the Edge. But
he could not. Not yet. There were too many irons in the fire to be
watched. There was Alys and her plea to Toran. There was the plight of
his people. He could not risk the danger to himself of driving a blade
through Freka's throat, no matter how his blood boiled with rage.

He turned on his heel and strode from the Great Hall, the laughter of
Freka and the star-kings ringing mockingly in his ears.


                                  IV

Kieron awoke in darkness. Of the fire on the hearth, only embers
remained and the stone rooms were silent but for the sound of sleeping
men. The single Valkyr sentry was at his elbow, whispering him into
wakefulness. Kieron threw back the fur coverlets and swung his feet
over the edge of the low couch.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nevitta, sir."

"Nevitta! Here?" Kieron sprang to his feet, fully awake now. "Is there
a woman with him?"

"A slave-girl, sir. They wait in the outer chamber."

Kieron reached for his harness and weapons, threading his way through
his sleeping men. In the dimly lit antechamber, Nevitta stood near the
muffled figure of Alys. Kieron went immediately to the girl, and she
threw back her hood, baring her golden head to the torchlight. Her eyes
were bright with the pleasure of seeing Kieron again, but there was
anger in them, too. The lord of Valkyr knew at once that she had not
succeeded with Toran.

"What happened, Nevitta?"

"An attempt was made on the little princess' life, sir."

"_What?_" Kieron felt the blood drain from his face.

"As I say, Kieron." The old Valkyr's face was grim. "We had to fight
our way out of the Palace."

"I never had a chance to speak to Toran," the girl said sombrely. "It
was all that could be done to reach the spaceship. Even the Janizaries
tried to stop us. Two of your men died for me, Kieron."

"Who did this thing?" asked Kieron ominously.

"The men who attacked the princess' quarters," said Nevitta
deliberately, "wore the harness of Kalgan."

That hit Kieron like a physical blow ... hard. "_Kalgan!_ And you
brought her _here_? You fool, Nevitta!"

The old Valkyr nodded agreement. "Yes, Kieron. Fool is the proper
word...."

"No!" Alys spoke up imperiously. "It was my command that brought us
here. I insisted."

"By the Seven Hells! Why?" demanded Kieron. "Why here? You could have
been safe on Valkyr! I know it was my order to bring you here, but
after what happened...."

"The princess would not hear of seeking safety, Kieron," said Nevitta.
"When Kalgan proved its treachery by trying to assassinate her, she
could think only of your danger here ... unwarned. She would risk her
life to bring you this news, Kieron."

Kieron turned to face the girl. She looked up at him, eyes bright, lips
parted.

"What could make a princess risk her life ..." Kieron began numbly.

"Kieron...." The girl breathed his name softly. "I was so afraid for
you."

The Valkyr reached slowly for the clasp of her cloak and unfastened
it. The heavy mantle dropped unnoticed to the flagstones. Alys stood,
swaying slightly, parted lips inviting. Kieron watched the throbbing
pulse in her white throat and felt his own pounding. He took a step
toward her, his arms closing about her yielding suppleness. His mouth
sought her lips.

Unnoticed, Nevitta slipped from the antechamber and silently closed the
door after him....

       *       *       *       *       *

Kieron stook before the arched window, staring out into the eternal,
misty dusk of Kalgan, his heart heavy. Behind him, Alys lay on the low
couch. Her bright hair lay in tumbled profusion about her face as she
watched her lover at the window. Kieron turned to look at her, feeling
the impact of her warm beauty. He began to pace the floor, wracking his
brains for a lead to his next move in the subtle war of treachery and
intrigue that had taken shape around him.

He had ordered his men ready for attack, but for the moment there
was little need for that kind of vigilance. What was needed was more
information. Carefully, he marshalled what few facts he had at his
disposal.

The connection between Freka and the plotters in the Imperial City that
he had suspected was proved at last by the attempt on Alys' life by men
of Kalgan. The star-kings were being used to fight a battle not their
own. But whose? Freka's ... or Ivane's? No matter which, they were
being tricked into striking the Imperial Crown from Toran's head, and
the gain to them and their people would be--more oppression.

The treatment he, himself, had received in the Imperial Court made
sense now. Landor sought to drive him into the arms of Freka's revolt.
Only Alys had spared him.

Now, the star-kings must be warned. But by the code of the Edge, Kieron
must prove to them that he was not the craven coward that Freka's
laughter had branded him. And he needed _proof_. Proof of the monstrous
structure of treachery and intrigue that had sprung up out of a woman's
cupidity and an unknown star-king's cold inhumanity.

Kieron stared moodily down into the damp courtyard beneath the open
window. In the early dawn it was deserted. Then, quite suddenly,
there was activity in the walled-in square. An officer of the Citadel
guard escorted a heavily cloaked figure into the yard, and with every
evidence of great respect, withdrew. The solitary figure paced the wet
cobbles nervously.

Who, wondered Kieron, would be treated with such obvious obsequiousness
and yet left in a back courtyard to await the summons of Freka of
Kalgan? A sudden thought struck him. It could be only someone who
should not be seen by the star-kings and their attendants that filled
the Citadel of Neg to overflowing.

Kieron studied the cloaked nobleman with renewed interest. It seemed to
him that he had seen that mincing walk before....

_Landor!_

Kieron flung open the door to the outer chamber. His startled men
gathered about him. Alys was on her feet behind him. He signalled for
Nevitta and four men to enter.

"Nevitta! Tear down that wall tapestry and cut it into shreds.... Alys,
tie the strips together and make a rope of it! Make certain the knots
are secure enough to bear a man's weight.... That's Landor down there!"

Kicking off his spurred boots, Kieron eased himself over the ledge
of the window. The courtyard was thirty feet below, but the ancient
walls of the Citadel were rough and full of the ornate projections of
Interregnal architecture. Kieron let himself down, feeling the mist
wet on his face. Twice he almost lost his footing and pitched to the
courtyard floor. Alys stared down at him from the window, white-faced.

He was ten feet from the bottom when Landor looked up. Recognition was
instant. There was a moment of stunned silence, and Kieron dropped the
remaining distance to land cat-like on his feet, blade in hand.

"Kieron!" Landor's face was grey.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Valkyr advanced purposefully. "Yes, Landor! Kieron! I wasn't
supposed to see you here, was I? And you don't dare raise an outcry or
the others will see you, too! That would raise quite a smell in the
Consort's pretty brew, wouldn't it?"

Landor shrank back, away from the gleaming blade in Kieron's hand.

"Draw, Landor," said Kieron softly. "Draw now, or I'll kill you where
you stand."

In a panic, the First Lord of Space drew his sword. He knew himself to
be no match for the Valkyr star-king, and at the first touch of blades,
he turned and fled for the gate. He banged hard against the heavy
panels. The gate was locked. Kieron followed him deliberately.

"Cry for help, Landor," Kieron suggested with a short, hard laugh. "The
place is full of fighting men."

Landor was wild-eyed. "Why do you want to kill me, Kieron," he cried
hoarsely; "what have I done to you...?"

"You've taxed my people and insulted me, and if that were not enough
there would still be your treachery with Freka--tricking me and the
others into rebellion so that Ivane can seize the crown! That's more
than enough reason to kill you. Besides ..." Kieron smiled grimly, "I
just don't like you, Landor. I'd enjoy spilling some of your milky
blood."

"Kieron! I swear, Kieron...."

"Save it, dancing master!" Kieron touched Landor's loosely held weapon
with his own. "Guard yourself!"

Landor uttered an animal cry of desperation and lunged clumsily at the
Valkyr. Kieron's sword made a glittering encirclement and the First
Lord's weapon clattered on the cobblestones twenty feet away.

Kieron's eyes were cold as he advanced on the now thoroughly terrorized
courtier. "Kneel down, Landor. A lackey should always die on his knees."

The First Lord threw himself to the cobbles, his arms around the
outworlder's knees. He was grey with fright and babbling for mercy, his
eyes tightly shut. Kieron reversed his sword and brought the heavy hilt
down sharply on Landor's head. The courtier sighed and pitched forward.
Kieron sheathed his weapon and picked the unconscious man up like a
sack of meal. Time was short. The guards would be returning to escort
Landor to Freka. Kieron picked up the courtier's fallen sword. There
must be no sign of struggle in the courtyard.

The Valkyr carried Landor over to where Alys and Nevitta had lowered
their improvised rope. He trussed Landor up like a butchered boar and
called to them. "Haul him up!"

Landor disappeared into the window and the rope came down again. Kieron
climbed hand over hand after the vanished courtier. Within seconds he
stood among his warriors again, and the courtyard was empty.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Landor!" Kieron splashed wine in the unconscious man's face. "Landor,
wake up!"

The courtier stirred and opened his eyes. Immediately they filmed with
fear. A hostile circle of faces looked down at him. Kieron, his dark
eyes flaming. Alys ... the great red face of Nevitta, framed by the
winged helmet ... other savage looking Valkyrs. It was to Landor a
scene from the legendary Seventh Hell of the Great Destroyer.

"If you want to live, talk," said Kieron. "What are you doing here on
Kalgan? It must be a message of importance you carry. Ivane would have
sent someone else if it weren't."

"I ... I carry no message, Kieron."

Kieron nodded to Nevitta who drew his dagger and placed it against
Landor's throat.

"We have no time for lies, Landor," said Kieron.

To emphasize the point, Nevitta pressed the blade tighter against the
pulse in the First Lord's neck. Landor screamed.

"Don't...!"

"Talk--or I'll cut the gizzard out of you!" Nevitta growled.

"All right! All right! But take that knife away...!"

"Ivane sent you here."

Landor nodded soundlessly.

"Why?"

"I ... I ... was to tell Freka that ... that his men failed to ...
to...."

"To kill me!" finished Alys angrily. "What else?"

"I ... was also to tell him that the rest of the plan was ... was ...
carried out ... successfully."

"Damn you, don't talk in riddles!" Kieron said. "What 'plan'?"

"The ... the Emperor is dead," Landor blurted, eyes wild with terror.
"But not by my hand! I swear it! Not by my hand!"

Alys choked back a cry of pain.

"Toran! Poor ... Toran...."

Kieron took the terrified courtier by the throat and shook him.

"You filthy swine! Who did it? _Who killed the Emperor?_"

"_Ivane!_" gasped Landor. "The people do not know he is dead and she
awaits the star-king's invasion to proclaim herself Empress...! In the
gods' name, Kieron, don't kill me! I speak the truth!"

"Freka helped plan this?" demanded Kieron.

"He is Ivane's man," stammered Landor, "but I know nothing of him!
Nothing, Kieron! The warlock Geller brought him to Ivane five years
ago ... that is all I know!"

Geller of the Marshes ... again. Kieron felt the awful dread seeping
through his anger. Somehow the connection between Geller and Freka must
be discovered. Somehow...!

Kieron turned away from the terrified Landor. The picture was shaping
now. Freka and Ivane. The star-kings' rebellion. Toran ... murdered.

"Keep this hound under guard!" ordered Kieron.

Landor was led away, shaken and weak.

"Nevitta!"

"Sir?"

"You and the princess will go back to the ship as you came. She must
be taken to safety at once. As soon as that pig is missed, we'll have
visitors...."

"No, Kieron! I won't go!" cried Alys.

"You must. If you are captured on Kalgan now it will mean a _carte
blanche_ for Ivane."

"But then you must come!"

"I can't. If I tried to leave here now, Freka would detain me by force.
I know his plans." He turned again to Nevitta. "She goes with you,
Nevitta. By force if necessary.

"Return to Valkyr and gather the tribes. We can do nothing without men
at our backs. One of the ships will remain here with me and the men. We
will try to get clear after we are certain that--" He looked over at
the slim girl, his eyes sombre--"that Her Majesty is safe."

The Valkyr warriors in the room straightened, a subtle change in their
expression as they watched Alys. A gulf had suddenly opened between
this girl and their chieftain. They felt it too. One by one they
dropped to their knees before her. Alys made a protesting gesture,
her eyes bright with tears. She saw the chasm opening, and fought it
futilely. But when Kieron, too, went to his knees, she knew it was
_so_. In one fleeting moment, they had changed from lover and beloved
to sovereign and vassal.

She forced back the tears and raised her head proudly; as Galactic
Empress, Heiress to the Thousand Emperors, she accepted the homage of
her fighting men.

"My lord of Valkyr," she said in a low, unsteady voice. "My love and
affection for you--and these warriors will never be forgotten. If we
live...."

Kieron rose to his full height, naked sword extended in his hands.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he spoke the words formally and slowly,
regretting what was gone. "The men of Valkyr are yours. To the death."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kieron watched Nevitta and Alys vanish down the long, gloomy hall
outside the Valkyr chambers--to all appearances a warrior chieftain
and his slave-girl ordered away by their master. Even then, thought
Kieron bleakly, there was danger. He saw them pass one sentry, two ...
three.... They turned the corner and were gone, Kieron's hopes and
fears riding with them.

Already, there were sounds of confusion in the Citadel of Neg. Men were
searching for the vanished Landor. Searching quietly, reflected Kieron
with grim satisfaction, for the visiting star-kings must not know that
Freka the Unknown held familiar audience with the Imperial First Lord
of Space. Spur of the moment hunting parties and entertainments were
keeping the visitors occupied while the Kalgan soldiery searched.

Kieron weighed his chances of escape and found them small indeed.
They dared not stir from their quarters in the Citadel until the roar
of Nevitta's spaceship told that the Empress was safely away. And
meanwhile, the search for Landor drew nearer.

An hour passed, the sand in the glass running with agonizing slowness.
Once Kieron thought he heard the beat of hooves on the drawbridge of
the Citadel, but he could not be certain.

Two hours. Kieron paced the floor of the Valkyr chambers, his twelve
remaining warriors armed, alert, watching him. Nervously he fingered
the hilt of his sword.

Another hour in the grey, eternal twilight. Still no sound of a
spaceship rising. Kieron's anxiety grew to gargantuan proportions. The
search for Landor came closer steadily. Kieron could hear the soldiers
tramping the stone corridors and causeways of the Citadel.

Suddenly there was a knock at the barred door to the Valkyrs' quarters.

"Open! In the name of the lord of Kalgan!"

A Valkyr near the door replied languidly. "Our master sleeps. Go away."

The knocking continued. "It is regretted that we must disturb him, but
a slave of the household has escaped. We must search for him."

"Would you disturb the Warlord of Valkyr's repose for a slave,
barbarians?" demanded the warrior at the door in a hurt tone of voice.
"Go away."

The officer in the hallway was beginning to lose patience.

"Open, I say! Or we'll break in!"

"Do," offered the Valkyr pleasantly. "I have a sword that has been too
long dry."

How Landor must be sweating in that back room, Kieron thought wryly,
thinking that the Valkyrs would rather kill him than let his message
reach Freka. But Landor's death would serve no useful purpose now.
Time! Time was needed. Time enough to let Nevitta get Alys out of
danger!

Kieron stepped to the door, hoping that some warriors of the Outer
Marches might possibly be within earshot and catch the implication
of his words. "Kieron of Valkyr speaks!" he cried. "We have Landor of
Earth here! Landor, the First Lord--is _that_ the slave you seek?"

But the only response was the sudden crash of a ram against the panels
of the wooden door. Kieron prepared to fight. Still, no sound of a
spaceship rising....

The door collapsed, and a flood of Kalgan warriors poured into the
room, weapons flashing.

Savagely, the Valkyrs closed with them, and the air rang with the
metallic clash of steel. No mercy was asked and none was given. Kieron
cut a circle of death with his long, outworld weapon, the fighting
blood of a hundred generations of warriors singing in his ears. The
savage chant of the Edge rose above the confused sounds of battle. A
man screamed in agony as his arm was severed by a blow from a Valkyr
blade, and he waved the stump desperately, spattering the milling men
with dark blood. A Valkyr warrior went down, locked in a death-embrace
with a Kalgan warrior, driving his dagger into his enemy again and
again even as he died. Kieron crossed swords with a guardsman, forcing
him backward until the Kalgan slipped on the flagstones made slippery
with blood and went down with a sword-cut from throat to groin.

The Valkyrs were cutting down their opponents, but numbers were
beginning to tell. Two Valkyrs went down before fresh onslaughts.
Another, and another, and still another. Kieron felt the burning touch
of a dagger wound. He looked down and saw that a thrust from someone in
the _melee_ had slashed him to the bone. His side was slick with blood
and the white ribs showed along the ten inch gash.

Now, Kieron stood back to back with his two remaining companions. The
other Valkyrs were down, lying still on the bloody floor. Kieron caught
a glimpse of Freka's tall figure behind his guardsman and he lunged
for him, suddenly blind with fury. Two Kalgan guards engaged him and
he lost sight of Freka. A Valkyr went down with a thrust in the belly.
Kieron took another wound in the arm. He could not tell how badly hurt
he was, but faintness from the loss of blood was telling on him. It was
getting hard to see clearly. Darkness seemed to be flickering like a
black flame just beyond his range of vision. He saw Freka again and
tried to reach him. Again he failed, blocked by a Kalgan soldier. A
thrown sword whistled past him and imbedded itself in the last Valkyr's
chest. The man sank to the floor in silence, and Kieron fought alone.

He saw the blade of an officer descending, but he could not ward it
off. And as it fell, a great hissing roar sounded beyond the open
window. Kieron almost smiled. Alys was safe....

He lifted his sword to parry the descending stroke. Weakened, the best
he could do was deflect it slightly. The blade caught him a glancing
blow on the side of the head and he staggered to his knees. He tried
to raise his weapon again ... tried to fight on ... but he could not.
Slowly, reluctantly, he sank to the floor as darkness welled up out of
the bloody flagstones to engulf him....


                                   V

Kieron stirred, the pulsing ache in his side piercing the reddish veil
of unconsciousness. Under him, he could feel wet stones that stank
of death and filth. He moved painfully, and the throbbing agony grew
worse, making him teeter precariously between consciousness and the
dark.

He was stiff and cold. Hurt badly, too, he thought vaguely. His wounds
had not been tended. Very carefully, he opened his eyes. They told him
what he had already known. He was in a dark cell, filthy and damp. A
sick chill shook him. Teeth chattering, huddled on the stone floor,
Kieron sank again into unconsciousness.

When he awoke again, he was burning with fever and a cold bowl of
solidified, greasy gruel lay beside him. His tongue felt thick and
swollen, but the sharp agony of his wounded side had subsided to a dull
hurt. With a great effort, he dragged himself into a corner of the
dungeon and propped himself up facing the iron-bound door.

His searching hands found that he had been stripped of his harness
and weapons. He was naked, smeared with filth and dried blood. As he
moved he felt a renewed flow of warmth flooding down from his torn
flank. The wound had reopened. Sweat was streaking the caked blood on
his cheek. His mind wandered in a feverish delirium--a nightmare dream
in which the tall, coldly arrogant figure of Freka seemed to fill all
space and all time. Kieron's over-bright eyes glittered with animal
hate....

Somehow, he felt that the hated Kalgan was nearby. He tried to keep his
eyes open, but the lids seemed weighted. His head sagged and the fever
took him again into the ebony darkness of some fantastic intergalactic
night where weird shapes danced and whirled in hideous joyousness....

The rattling of the door-lock woke him. It might have been minutes
later or days. Kieron had no way of knowing. He felt light-headed
and giddy. He watched the door open with fever-bright eyes. A jailer
carrying a flambeau entered and the light blinded Kieron. He shielded
his face with his hand. There was a voice speaking to him. A voice he
knew ... and hated. With a shuddering effort, he took a grip on his
staggering mind, his hate sustaining him now. Moving his hands away
from his face, he looked up--into the icy eyes of Freka the Unknown.

"So you're awake at last," the Kalgan said.

Kieron made no reply. He could feel the fury burning deep inside him.

Freka held a jewelled dagger in his hands, toying with it idly. Kieron
watched the shards of light leaping from the faceted gems in the liquid
torchlight. The slender blade shimmered, blue and silvery in the
Kalgan's hands.

"I have been told that the Lady Alys was with you--here on Kalgan. Is
this true?"

Alys ... Kieron thought vaguely of her for a moment, but somehow the
picture brought sadness. He put her out of his mind and squinted up
at Freka's gemmed dagger, unable to take his eyes from the glittering
weapon.

"Can you speak?" demanded Freka. "Was Toran's sister with you?"

Kieron watched the weapon, a feral brilliance growing like a flame in
his dark eyes.

Freka shrugged. "Very well, Kieron. It makes no difference. Does it
interest you to know that the armies are gathering? Earth will be ours
within four weeks." His voice was cold, unemotional. "You realize, of
course, that you cannot be allowed to live."

Kieron said nothing. Very carefully he gathered his strength. The
dagger ... the dagger...!

"I will not risk war with Valkyr by killing you now. But you will be
tried by a council of star-kings on Earth when we have done what we
must do...."

Kieron stared hard at the slender weapon, his hate pounding in his
fevered mind. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Freka spun the blade
idly, setting the jewels afire.

"We should have taken you the moment Landor was missed," mused the
Kalgan. "But ... it really doesn't matter now...."

Kieron's taut muscles uncoiled in a snakelike, lashing movement. He
hit Freka below the knees with all his fevered strength and the Kalgan
went down without a sound, the slim dagger clattering on the slimy
floor of the cell. The guard leaped forward. Kieron's searching hand
closed about the hilt of the dagger. With a sound of pure animal rage
in his throat he drove it into Freka's unprotected chest. Twice again
his hand rose and fell, and then the guard caught him full in the face
with a booted foot and the light of the torch faded again into inky
blackness....

       *       *       *       *       *

In the darkness, time lost its meaning. Kieron woke a dozen times,
feeling the dull throbbing ache of his wounds and then fading again
into unconsciousness. He ate--or was fed--enough to keep him alive,
but he had no memory of it. He floated in a red-tinged sea of black,
unreal, frightening. He screamed or sobbed as the phantasms of his
sick dreams dictated, but through it all ran a single thread of
elation. Freka, the hated one, was dead. No horror of nightmare or
delirium could strip him of that one grip on life. Freka was dead. He
remembered vaguely the feel of the dagger plunging again and again
into his tormentor's breast. Sometimes he even forgot why he had hated
Freka, but he clung to the knowledge that he had killed him the way a
drowning man clings to the last suffocating breath.

Sounds filtered into Kieron's dungeon. Sounds that were familiar.
The hissing roar of spaceships. Then later the awful susurration of
mob sounds. Kieron lay sprawled on the stones of his cell-floor, not
hearing, lost in the fantasmagoric stupor of delirium. His wounds still
untended, only the magnificent body of a warrior helped him cling to
the thread of life.

Other sounds came. The crash of rams and the clatter of falling
masonry. The shrieks of men and women dying. The ringing cacophony of
weapons and the curses of fighting men. Hours passed and the din grew
louder, closer, in the heart of the Citadel of Neg itself. The torches
on the outer cellblocks guttered out and were left untended. The sounds
of fighting rose to a wild pitch, interlaced with the inhuman, animal
sounds of a mob gone mad.

At last Kieron stirred, some of the familiar sounds of battle striking
buried chords in his fevered mind. He listened to the advancing clash
of weapons until it rang just beyond his dungeon door.

He dragged himself into his corner again and crouched there, the feral
light in his eyes brilliant now. His hands itched for killing. He
flexed the fingers painfully and waited.

The silence was sudden and as complete as the hush of the tomb.

Kieron waited.

The door was flung wide, and men bearing torches rushed into the cell.
Kieron lunged savagely for the first one, hands seeking a throat.

"_Kieron!_" Nevitta threw himself backward violently. Kieron clung to
him, his face a fevered mask of hate. "Kieron! It is I ... Nevitta!"

Kieron's hands fell away from the old warrior and he stood swaying,
squinting against the light of the torches. "Nevitta ... Nevitta?"

A wild laugh came from the prisoner's cracked lips. He looked about
him, into the strained faces of his own fighting men.

He took one step and pitched forward into the arms of Nevitta, who
carried him like a child up into the light, tears streaking his
grizzled cheeks....

       *       *       *       *       *

For three weeks Alys and Nevitta nursed Kieron, sucking the poison of
his untended wounds with their mouths and bathing him to break the
fiery grip of the fever. At last they won. Kieron opened his eyes--and
they were sane and clear.

"How long?" Kieron asked faintly.

"We were gone from Kalgan twenty days ... you have lain here
twenty-one," Alys said thankfully.

"Why did you come back here?" Kieron demanded bitterly. "You have lost
an Empire!"

"We came for you, Kieron," Nevitta said. "For our king."

"But ... Alys ..." Kieron protested.

"I would not have the Great Throne, Kieron," said Alys, "if it meant
leaving you to rot in a cell!"

Kieron turned his face to the wall. Because of him, the star-kings
fought Ivane's battle. And by now they would have won. The only thing
that had been done was the killing of the treacherous Freka. He held
Kalgan now, for the Valkyrs had returned seeking their Warlord after
Freka's plan had stripped the planet of fighting men--and the mobs had
done the Valkyr's work for them. But two worlds were not an Empire of
stars. Alys had been cheated. Because of him.

No! thought Kieron, by the Seven Hells, no! They could not be defeated
so easily. There were five thousand warriors with him now. If need be,
he would fight the Imperium's massed forces to win Alys' rightful place
on the throne of Gilmer of Kaidor!

"Let me up," Kieron demanded. "If we hit them on Earth before they have
a chance to consolidate, there's still a chance!"

"There is no hurry, Kieron," said Nevitta holding him in the bed with a
great hand. "Freka and the star-kings have already...."

"_Freka!_" Kieron sat bolt upright.

"Why, yes ..." murmured Nevitta in perplexity. "Freka."

"That's impossible!"

"We have had information from the Imperial City, Kieron. Freka is
there," said Alys.

Kieron sank back on the pillows. Had he dreamed killing the Kalgan? No!
It wasn't possible! He had driven the blade into his chest three
times ... driven it deep.

With an effort he rose from the bed. "Order my charger, Nevitta!"

"But sir!"

"Quickly, Nevitta! There is no time!"

Nevitta saluted reluctantly and withdrew.

"Help me with my harness, Alys," ordered Kieron forgetful of majesty.

"Kieron, you can't ride!"

"I have to ride, Alys. Listen to me. I drove a dagger into Freka three
times ... and he has not died! One man can tell us why, and we must
know. _That man is Geller of the Marshes!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

Neg was a shambles. The advent of the Valkyrs had been a signal for the
brutish population to go mad. Mobs had thronged the streets, smashing,
killing and looting. The few Kalgan warriors left behind to guard
the city had had to aid the Valkyrs in restoring order. It seemed to
Kieron, as he rode along the now sullenly silent streets, that Kalgan
and Neg had been deliberately abandoned as having served a purpose. If
Freka still lived, as they said, then he was something unique among
men, and not meant for so unimportant a world as Kalgan.

Shops and houses had been gutted by fire. Goods of all kinds were
strewn about the streets, and here and there a body--twisted and
dismembered--awaited the harrassed burial detachments that roamed the
shattered megalopolis.

Kieron and Alys rode slowly toward the marshy slums of the lower city,
Nevitta following them at a short distance. The three war horses,
creatures bred to war and destruction, paced along easily, flaring
nostrils taking in the familiar smells of a ruined city.

Along the street of the Black Flames there was nothing left standing
whole. Every hovel, every tenement had been gutted and looted by the
mobs. Presently, Kieron drew rein before a shuttered shanty between two
structures of fire-blackened stone.

Nevitta rode up with a protest. "Why do you seek this beloved of
demons, Kieron?" he asked fearfully. "No good can come of this!"

Kieron stared at the shanty. It stared back at him with veiled
ghoulish eyes. The writhing mists shrouded the grey street in the
eternal twilight of Kalgan. Kieron felt his hands trembling on the
reins. This was the lair of the warlock.

The stench of the marshes was thick and now the mists turned to soft
rain. Kieron dismounted.

"Wait for me here," he ordered Nevitta and Alys.

With pounding heart, he drew his sword and started for the door that
gaped like the black mouth of a plague victim. Alys touched his elbow,
disregarding his instructions. Her eyes were bright with fear, but
she followed him closely. Secretly glad of her companionship, Kieron
breathed a prayer to his Valkyr gods and stepped inside....

The place was a wreck. Old books lay everywhere, ripped and tattered.
In a corner, someone had tried to make a bonfire of a pile of
manuscripts and broken furniture and had half succeeded.

"The mob has been here," Alys said succinctly.

Kieron led the way through the rubble toward the door of a back room.
Carefully, he pushed it ajar with the point of his blade. It creaked
menacingly, revealing another chamber--one filled with strange machines
and twisted tubes of glass. Great black boxes stood along one wall,
coils of bright wire running into the jumbled mass of shattered
machines that dominated the center of the room. The air of the cold,
silent room had a strange and unpleasant tang. The smell, thought the
Valkyr, of the Great Destroyer!

The tip of his sword touched one of the bright copper coils springing
from the row of black boxes along the wall, and a tiny blue spark
leaped up the blade. Kieron yanked his weapon away, his heart racing
wildly. A thin curl of smoke hung in the air, and the steel of the
blade was pitted. Kieron fought down the urge to run in terror.

"I'm afraid, Kieron!" whispered Alys, clinging to him.

Kieron took her hand and moved cautiously around the pile of broken
machinery. He found Geller then, and tried to stop Alys from seeing.

"The Great Destroyer he served failed him," Kieron said slowly.

The warlock was dead. The mob, terrified--and hating what they could
not understand--had killed him cruelly. The staring eyes mocked Kieron,
the blackened tongue lolled stupidly out of the dry lips. Geller's
mystery, thought Kieron, was still safe with him....

On the way out, Kieron stopped and picked up the remnants of a book of
sigils. It was incredibly old, for the characters on the cover were
those of the legendary First Empire. With some difficulty he made out
the title.

"'_Perpetually Regenerating Warps and their Application in Interstellar
Engines_'...."

The words meant nothing to him. He dropped the magic book and picked up
two others. This time his eyes widened.

"What is it, Kieron?" Alys asked fearfully.

"Long ago," Kieron said thoughtfully, "on Valkyr, it was said that the
ancients of the First Empire were familiar with the secrets of the
Great Destroyer...."

"That's true. That is why the Interregnum came, and the dark ages,"
said Alys.

"I wonder," mused Kieron looking at the books. "What was this Geller
known best for?"

Alys shuddered. "For his homunculi."

"The ancients, it is said, knew many things. Even how to make ...
artificial servants. Robots, they were called." He handed her the book.
"Can you read this ancient script?"

Alys read aloud, her voice unsteady.

"'_First Principles of Robotics._'"

"And this one?"

"_'Incubation and Gestation of Androids'...!_"

Kieron of Valkyr stood in the silent, wrecked laboratory of the dead
warlock Geller, his medieval mind trying to break free of the bondage
of a millennium of superstition and ignorance. He understood now ...
many things.


                                  VI

Like great silver fish leaping up into the bowl of night, the ships
of the Valkyr fleet rose from Kalgan. Within the pulsing hulls five
thousand warriors rode, ready for battle. Against the mighty forces
of the assembled star-kings, the army of Valkyr counted for almost
nothing; but the savage fighting men of the Edge carried with them
their talisman--Alys Imperatrix, uncrowned sovereign of the Galaxy,
Heiress to the Thousand Emperors--the daughter of their beloved
warrior-prince, Gilmer, conqueror of Kaidor.

[Illustration: _Like great silver fish leaping up into the bowl of
night, the ships of the Valkyr fleet rose from Kalgan_....]

In the lead vessel, Nevitta dogged the harried Navigators, urging
greater speed. Below decks, the war chargers snorted and stomped the
steel decks, sensing the tension of the coming clash in the close,
smoky air of the spaceships.

Kieron stood beside the forward port with Alys, looking out into the
strangely distorted night of space. As speed increased, the stars
vanished and the night that pressed against the flanks of the hurtling
ship grew grey and unsteady. Still velocity climbed, and then beyond
the great curving glass screen there was nothing. Not blackness, or
emptiness. A soul-chilling nothingness that twisted the mind and
refused to be accepted by human eyes. Hyperspace.

Kieron drew the draperies closed and the observation lounge of the huge
ancient liner grew dim and warm.

"What's ahead, Kieron?" the girl asked with a sigh. "More fighting and
killing?"

The Valkyr shook his head. "Your Imperium, Your Majesty," he said
formally, "a crown of stars that a thousand generations have gathered
for you. That lies ahead."

"Oh, Kieron! Can't you forget the Empire for the space of an hour?"
Alys demanded angrily.

The Warlord of Valkyr looked at his Empress in perplexity. There were
times when women were hard to fathom.

"Forget it, I say!" the girl cried, her eyes suddenly flaming.

"If Your Majesty wishes, I'll not speak of it again," said Kieron
stiffly.

Alys took a step toward him. "There was a time when you looked at me as
a woman. When you _thought_ of me as a woman! Am I so different now?"

Kieron studied her slim body and sensuously patrician face. "There was
a time when I thought of you as a child, too. Those times pass. You
are now my Empress. I am your vassal. Command me. I'll fight for you.
Die for you, if need be. Anything. But by the Seven Hells, Alys, don't
torture me with favors I can't claim!"

"So I must command, then?" She stamped her foot angrily. "Very well, I
command you, Valkyr!"

"Lady, I'll never be a Consort!"

The girl's face flushed. "Did I ask it? I know I can't make a lapdog
out of you, Kieron."

"Stop it, Alys," Kieron muttered heavily.

"Kieron," she said softly, "I've loved you since I was a child. I love
you now. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Everything, Alys."

"Then for the space of this voyage, Kieron, forget the Empire. Forget
everything except that I love you. Take what I offer you. There is no
Empress here...."

       *       *       *       *       *

The silver fleet speared down into the atmosphere of the mother planet.
Earth lay beneath them like a globe of azure. The spaceships fanned out
into a wedge as they split the thin cold air high above the sprawling
megalopolis of the Imperial City.

The capital lay ringed about with the somnolent shapes of the
star-kings' great armada. Somewhere down there, Kieron knew, Freka
waited. Freka the Unknown. The unkillable? Kieron wondered. For weapons
he had his sword and a little knowledge. He prayed it would be enough.
It had to be. Five thousand warriors could not defeat the assembled
might of the star-kings.

Shunning the spaceport, Kieron led his fleet to a landing on the grassy
esplanade that surrounded the city. As the hurried debarkation of men
and horses began, Kieron could see a cavalry force massing before the
gates to oppose them. He cursed and urged his men to greater speed.
Horses reared and neighed; weapons glinted in the late afternoon
sunlight.

Within the hour the debarkation was complete, and Kieron sat armed and
mounted before the serried ranks of his warriors. The afternoon was
filled with the flash of steel and the blazing glory of gonfalons as he
ordered his ranks for battle ... a battle that he hoped with all his
heart to avoid.

Across the plain, the Valkyr could make out the pennon of Doorn in the
first rank of the advancing defenders. Kieron ordered Nevitta to stay
by the Empress in the rear ranks and to escort her forward with all
ceremony if he called for her.

Alys rode a white charger and had clad herself in the panoply of a
Valkyr warrior maid. Her hips were girded in a harness of linked steel
plates, her long legs free to ride astride. Over her chest and breasts
was laced a hauberk of chain mail that shimmered in the slanting
sunlight. On her head a Valkyr's winged helmet--and from under it
her golden hair fell in cascades of light to her shoulders. A silver
cloak stood out behind her as she galloped past the ranks of Valkyrs,
and they cheered her as she went. Kieron, watching her, thought she
resembled the ancient war-goddess of his own world--imperious, regal.

With a cry, Kieron ordered his riders forward and the glittering ranks
swept forward across the esplanade like a turbulent wave, spear-heads
agleam, gonafalons fluttering. He rode far ahead, seeking a meeting
with old Eric of Doorn, his father's friend.

He signalled, and the two surging masses of warriors slowed as the
two star-kings rode to a meeting between the armies. Kieron raised an
open right hand in the sign of truce and old Eric did likewise. Their
caparisoned chargers tossed their heads angrily at being restrained and
eyed each other with white-rimmed eyes.

Kieron drew rein, facing the old star-king.

"I greet you," he said formally.

"Do you come in friendship, or in war?" asked Eric.

"That will depend on the Empress," Kieron replied.

The lord of Doorn smiled, and there was scorn on his face. He was
remembering Kalgan and Kieron's reluctance. "You will be pleased
to know, then, that the Imperial Ivane bids you enter her city in
peace--so that you may do her homage and throw yourself on her mercy
for your crimes against Kalgan."

Kieron gave a short, steely laugh. So Ivane had already learned of the
Valkyr sack of Kalgan. "I do not know any 'Imperial Ivane,' Eric," he
said coldly. "When I spoke of the Empress, I meant the true Empress,
Alys, the daughter of your lord and mine, Gilmer of Kaidor." He
signalled Alys and Nevitta forward.

The gonfalons of the Valkyr line dipped in salute as Alys trotted
through the ranks. She drew rein, facing the amazed Eric.

"Noble lady!" he gasped. "We were told you were dead!"

"And so I might have been, had Ivane had her way!"

The old star-king stammered in confusion. There was more here than
he could understand. Only a week before, he and the other star-kings
had done homage to Ivane and hailed her as their savior from the
oppressions of the Emperor Toran, and the nearest living kin to the
late Gilmer. And now...!

Eric frowned. "If we have been made fools, Freka must answer for this!"

"And now," asked Kieron grimly, "do we enter the city in peace or do we
cut our way in?"

Eric signalled his men to swing in beside the ranked Valkyrs and the
whole mass of armed men moved through the fading afternoon toward the
gates of the Imperial City.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was dusk by the time the cavalcade reached the walls of the Imperial
Palace. Kieron called a halt and ordered his men to rest on their arms.
Taking only Nevitta and Alys with him, he joined Eric of Doorn in
challenging the Janizaries of the Palace Guard.

They were passed by the stolid Pleiadenes without comment, for the lord
of Doorn was known as a vassal of the Imperial Ivane. Faces set, the
small party strode up the wide curving stairway that led into the Hall
of the Great Throne. The courtiers had been warned by the shouts of
the people in the streets that something was happening, and they had
already begun to gather in the Throne Room.

He had come a long way, thought Kieron, from the day when he had stood
before the Throne begging an audience with Toran. Now, everything hung
on his one chance to prove his case--and Alys'--to the assembled nobles.

Kieron noted with some concern that the Palace Guards were gathering
too. They covered each exit to the chamber, cutting off retreat.

By now, the Hall of the Great Throne was jammed with courtiers and
star-kings, all tensely silent--waiting. Nor did they wait long.

With a blast of trumpets and a rolling of tympani, Ivane entered
the Throne Room. Some of the courtiers knelt, but others stood in
confusion, looking from Alys to Ivane and back again.

Kieron studied Ivane coldly. She was, he had to admit, a regal figure.
A tall woman with hair the color of jet. A face that seemed chiseled
out of marble. Dark, predatory eyes and a figure like a Dawn Age
goddess. She stood before the Great Throne of the Empire, mantled in
the sable robe of the Imperium--a robe as black as space and spangled
with diamonds to resemble the stars of the Imperial Galaxy. On her head
rested the irridium tiara of Imperatrix.

Ivane swept the Hall with a haughty stare that stung like a lash. When
her eyes found Alys standing beside Kieron, they brightened, became
feral.

"Guards!" she commanded. "Seize that woman! She is the killer of the
Emperor Toran!"

A murmuring filled the chamber. The Janizaries pressed forward. Kieron
drew his sword and leaped to the dais beside Ivane. She did not shrink
back from him.

"Touch her, and Ivane dies!" shouted Kieron, his point at Ivane's naked
breast. The murmuring subsided and the Janizaries pulled up short.

"Now, you are all going to listen to me!" shouted Kieron from the dais.
"This woman under my blade is a murderess and plotter, and I can prove
it!"

Ivane's face was strained and white. Not from fear of his sword, Kieron
knew.

"In the Palace dungeons you will likely find Landor ..." Kieron
continued. "He will be there because he knew of Ivane's plottings and
talked too much when he had a dagger at his throat. He will confirm
what I say!

"This woman plotted to usurp the Imperium _as long as five years ago_!
It may have been longer...." He turned to Ivane. "How long does it take
to incubate an _android_, Ivane? A year? Two? And then to train him,
school him so that every move he makes is intended to further your
aims? How long does all that take?"

Ivane uttered a scream of terror now. "Freka! Call Freka!"

Kieron dropped his sword point and stepped away from Ivane as though
she were contaminated. There was little danger from _her_ now--but
there was still another.

Freka appeared at the edge of the dais, his tall form towering above
the courtiers. "You called for me, Imperial Ivane?"

Ivane stared at Kieron with hate-filled eyes. "You have failed me!
_Kill him now!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

Kieron whirled and caught Freka's blade on his own. The courtiers drew
back, giving them room to fight. No one made a move to interfere. It
was known that Valkyrs had sacked the city of Neg, and according to the
warrior code the two warlords must be allowed to fight to the death if
they wished.

Kieron made no attack. Instead he retreated before the expressionless
Freka.

"Did you know, Freka," asked Kieron softly, "that Geller of the Marshes
is dead? He was your father in a way, wasn't he?"

Freka made no reply, and for a moment the only sound in the hushed
chamber was the ring of blades.

Suddenly Kieron lunged. His sword pierced Freka from breast to back.
The Valkyr stepped back and pulled his blade clear. The crowd gasped,
for Freka the Unknown did not fall....

"Are you really unkillable?" breathed Kieron. "I wonder!"

Again he lunged under the mechanical guard of the Kalgan. Again his
blade sank deep. Freka backed away for a moment, still alert and
unwounded.

Kieron shouted derisively at the star-kings: "Great warriors! Do you
see? You have followed the leadership of an android! A homunculus
spawned by the warlock Geller!"

A gasping roar went up in the chamber. A sound of superstitious horror
and growing anger.

Kieron parried a thrust and brought his blade down on Freka's sword
arm. Hard. A sword clattered to the flagstones--still gripped by a
slowly relaxing hand. There was no blood. The android still moved
in, eyes expressionless, his one hand reaching for his enemy. Kieron
struck again. A clean cut opened from shoulder to belly, slicing the
artificial tendons and leaving the android helpless but still erect.
Kieron raised and lowered his blade in glittering arcs. Freka ... or
the thing that had been Freka ... collapsed in a grotesque heap. Still
it moved. Kieron passed his point again and again through the quivering
mass until at long last it was still. Somewhere a woman fainted.

A thick silence fell over the assemblage. All eyes turned to Ivane. She
stood staring at the remnants of the thing that had been ... almost ...
a man. Her hand fluttered at her throat.

Alys' voice cut through the heavy stillness. "Arrest that woman for the
murder of my brother Toran!"

But the crowd of courtiers was thinking of other things. Jaded and
cynical, they had seen with their own eyes that Ivane was a familiar of
the dreaded Great Destroyer. Someone cried: "Witch! Burn her!"

The mass of courtiers and warriors swept forward, screaming for the
kill. Kieron leaped for the dais, his sword still bared.

"I'll kill the first one who sets foot on the Great Throne!" he cried.

But Ivane had heard the crowd sounds. The black mantle slipped from
her shoulders, and she stood stripped to the waist, like a marble
goddess--her eyes recapturing some of their icy hauteur. Then, before
she could be stopped, she had taken a jewelled dagger and driven it
deep into her breast.

Kieron caught her as she fell, feeling the warm blood staining his
hands. He eased her down on the foot of the Great Throne and laid his
ear to her breast.

There was no pulse. Ivane was dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before the assembled Court, the Warlord of Valkyr knelt before his
Empress. The star-kings had gone, and the Valkyrs were the last
outworld warriors remaining in the Imperial City. Now, they too, would
take their leave.

The Empress sat on the Great Throne, mantled in sable. Somehow, the
huge throne and the vast vaulted chamber seemed to make her look small
and frail.

"Your Imperial Majesty," said Kieron, "have we your leave to go?"

Alys' eyes were bright with tears. She leaned forward so that none but
Kieron might hear. "Stay a while yet, Kieron. At least let us say our
goodbyes alone and not ..." She looked about the crowded Throne Room,
"... not here."

Kieron shook his head mutely. Aloud, he said again, "Have I Your
Majesty's permission to return to Valkyr?"

"Kieron...!" whispered Alys. "Please...."

He looked up at her once, pain in his eyes, but he did not speak.

Alys knew then that the gulf had opened between them again; that this
time, it was for the rest of their lives. The tears came and streaked
her cheek as she lifted her head and spoke for all the Court to hear.

"Permission is granted, My Lord of Valkyr. You ... you may return to
Valkyr." And then she whispered, "And my love goes with you, Kieron!"

Kieron raised her jewelled hands to his lips and kissed them.... Then
he arose and turned on his heel to stride swiftly from the Great Hall.