A scream of fear and fury tore from the throats of the fighters.
Yorg was bellowing, "The gates! Fly! Save yourselves, if you can."
It was too late. The urn was turning in the hands of the androids.
The Black Priest cried in a strangely sweet voice for such a man, "Foolish rebels! For the last time you have dared defy the power of all-consuming Aava. This time you die! Swing the urn. Let the outlaws taste the green kiss of mighty Aava, that he may take them with him to the land of nevermore!"
The black orifice of the urn was becoming rounder as it tilted down. Deep in the rounded bowl, green fire shimmered.
Thor went forward, swinging his sword. It was not as good as an axe, but it would do. He flung it straight for the broad chest of the Black Priest, and followed it.
He saw the blade go deep into the man, saw him stagger backwards, bellowing his rage. Then Thor was reaching for the top rail of the balcony, leaping, his legs like springs beneath him.