Sark gestured. The Pervods dragged their prisoner to him.
She was young. Haral saw now; young, and slim, and incredibly lovely. Hair like spun gold hung to her waist—the silken blonde hair of the Shamon, the race that had ruled Ulna in the days before the renegades of a dozen worlds poured in from across the void to make the planetoid a blood-drenched, anarchistic madhouse.
But more than her face or body, it was her garb that held the blue man.
For she wore the blue cloak of Xaymar's order, and against her high, proud breasts hung the shining toloid metal tablet that signified her consecration.
Once more, the gross monster that was Gar Sark leaned forward. He spoke to the girl in a gentle, beguiling voice that struck a clashing paradox with the fiend's own soul that dwelt within him: "They call you Kyla, do they not?" He touched the tablet that rested upon her breasts. A webbed finger traced the lightning-bolt symbol emblazoned on it. "Kyla, virgin priestess to the veiled woman-goddess Xaymar, the one your people call the queen of storms...."
The blue man could see the tremor that rippled through the girl at Sark's grisly touch. But she did not quail. When she spoke, her voice was steady.
"That is true."
"Xaymar, queen of storms...." the raider chief repeated softly. He leaned back in the riding-chair, eyes sleepy and low-lidded. "She once lived, did she not, in mortal form? Here, on your planetoid of Ulna?"
"Yes. That is what the stories say."