"Then ... Xaymar, queen of storms, deserts her faithful ones for aliens? She casts off my Shamon people ... me, her priestess—?"
Xaymar tossed her head. "I tire of this dreary prattle!" she cried, and gestured to a massive, tentacled Thorian at Sark's side. "You! Take this Shamon drab away!"
For the fraction of a second the Thorian's great saucer eyes rolled from Xaymar to Sark to Kyla. Then, wordless, he undulated towards the shrinking girl.
And Haral, too, stared, still not quite believing that this incredible creature, be she woman or devil or goddess, could so take command even of Sark's own men.
Then, again, he glimpsed the stiffness in Kyla's face, and a strange uneasiness gripped him. Perhaps it was the way she stood, almost as if waiting for the Thorian, with no thought of retreating.
The Thorian whipped a tentacle towards her.
But in the same instant Kyla, too, was moving. Her hair shimmered like quicksilver as she slid beneath the Thorian's snake-like member. Her hand darted beneath her filmy outer garment, then out again, jerking forth her ray-gun. Her body twisted as she stabbed the weapon close to the Thorian's monstrous bulk.
Then she was blasting, at so short a range that the raider's flesh burst asunder under the impact of the beam.
The Thorian's tentacles lashed out in frenzy. But already the girl was leaping back beyond his grasp.
Now, she was turning; springing up onto the dais. Her voice rang with a fury born of outrage: