The eunuch raised his head; slowly, fearfully.
“Goddess!” he whispered. “Goddess! Mercy!”
“I saved him,” she turned to us, “for you to slay. He it was who brought those who took the maid who was mine and the helpless one she loved. Slay him.”
Drake understood—his hand twitched down to his pistol, drew it. He leveled the gun at the black eunuch. Yuruk saw it—shrieked and cowered. Norhala laughed—sweetly, ruthlessly.
“He dies before the stroke falls,” she said. “He dies doubly therefore—and that is well.”
Drake slowly lowered the automatic; turned to me.
“I can't,” he said. “I can't—do it—”
“Masters!” Upon his knees the eunuch writhed toward us. “Masters—I meant no wrong. What I did was for love of the Goddess. Years upon years I have served her. And her mother before her.
“I thought if the maid and the blasted one were gone, that you would follow. Then I would be alone with the Goddess once more. Cherkis will not slay them—and Cherkis will welcome you and give the maid and the blasted one back to you for the arts that you can teach him.
“Mercy, Masters, I meant no harm—bid the Goddess be merciful!”