"Come! All you women, come!"
Thor pressed against the open gate, staring at women in rags, women naked, women in torn silks and satins. There were red heads, and brunettes, and girls with hair the colour of old amber. Some were lovely, some ugly, some were furred like Yorg. They ran silently, scenting freedom.
Thor was a tall man. Standing, he looked over those tossing heads, seeking Karola. He saw her in the press, clothes almost ripped entirely away. He bellowed and shook his battered sword above his head.
He clove a path to her, swung her up on his hip, and ran.
She whimpered, "It is glorious, but useless—look!"
Thor stared toward a balcony four feet above the sun-baked floor of the compound. A giant of an android, with bristling black beard matting his red face was gesturing to three others who were bent and straining at something between them.
When they moved, Thor saw it was the black urn.
"It is Aava," Karola whispered hoarsely. "The women told me of him. And that is the Black Priest, the one they call Malgrim. He will move the urn to face us. Aava will kill all, even his own men. What are men to Aava?"
A scream of fear and fury tore from the throats of the fighters. Shrilling above it was the frightened cry of the women.