Kortha had made his name spell magic once again.
Guantra was a beaten man. As he stepped into the glassite tower, his cheeks were sunken, his eyes hollow above blackish rings. He stumbled over the threshold, and kept licking his lips helplessly. When Ilse saw his eyes, she knew suddenly what an enemy Kortha was. From the eyes of Guantra came the look that a slave might cast to an adored idol that came to life, and thundered curses on him. Guantra looked at Kortha as though he expected fire to shoot from his mouth and devour him.
Kortha grinned, "I told you you would never beat me, Guantra. Are we friends again?"
"Friends?" screamed the Premier, a white froth at the corners of his thin mouth. "You and I were never friends. We were always enemies. We were destined by fate to fight. And you—by some unknown magic you always win. You turn defeat to overwhelming victory. Always. It isn't fair to other men. Are you Zut himself? But now—now that you have won—taste what it feels like to—lose!"
From the depths of his despair, Guantra acted. His hand went to his tunic, lifted out with a heatgun in it.
His officers cried out at his treachery.
Kortha came in low, ducking under the sizzling blast that burnt black splotches on the white fur of his jacket. His left fist arced up, sending the heatgun from the numbed hand of the Premier. His right hand came across in a blur of motion: struck like a piston against Guantra's jaw. His fist whipped the man's head up and back, making the hair fly like seafoam striking a rock.
The crack of the neck breaking under the titanic power of the blow was etched against a frightened stillness.
Ilse and the officers stared at the crumpling form of the Premier whose knees sagged, lowering his body gently to the floor. His head hung at a sick angle from his limp neck.
Across the fallen body, Kortha looked at the white-faced officers. One of them extended his hands, palms down, saying, "Search us, Kortha. We came in peace."