For an instant Haral stiffened. Then, painfully, he forced himself to his feet.
But now a new voice interrupted, imperious and vibrant:
"Who are you to give commands, fat beast, here in the innermost sanctuary of Xaymar, queen of storms?"
Haral pivoted.
The woman on the cot now sat erect, her very stance a mirror of haughtiness and pride.
Anger flamed in Sark's puffy cheeks. "Who dares to question? I am Sark—"
"Yes. He is Sark," Haral cut in. He poured savage irony into his words. "They say you are a goddess, Xaymar. But he—he is Sark, gar of the space-raiders, a being so fierce and brave he does not even dare to waken you himself!"
"Silence, chitza!" shrieked the raider chief.
Haral mocked him: "He seeks your secrets, Xaymar—if he can pay the price with someone else's life, and not his own! As for commands—what does he care that others call you goddess? He is the great Gar Sark—"
Sark cried: "Kill the starbo—!"