"Peace, brother of Kyphallos." Kalamita turned like a tigress on him. "Who are you to interfere? Stand back and watch how Zollaria deals with Tamarizian spies. Gor, take thy spear."
Gor's lips curled back as he advanced slightly, lifted his heavy weapon and poised it.
Impotently Croft's spirit writhed as he gazed upon the scene—on Kalamita, leaning forward in all her savage beauty, her sinuous body panting, her nostrils flared, once more gripping the arms of her chair with tightened fingers—at Koryphu, deadly pale because of the contemplated outrage, at the figure of Gor, wonderful in its sheer brute strength and proportion, set for the thrust on the word of command, at the guardsmen, the captain, the figure of his flier, drawn up now to its fullest stature, proudly erect in the face of death, and knew himself powerless to intervene.
And suddenly the aviator threw up his hand toward the other man of his nation. "Hail, Cathur, Aphur salutes thee," his voice came strongly. "Long life to Tamarizia. Say to Zitu's Mouthpiece that Robur—"
"Slay!" Kalamita screamed.
Gor's spear plunged home.
"Carry off that carrion." The woman's arm rose, pointing at the body.
The captain growled an order. The guardsmen lifted the limp form in its suit of leather and bore it out on their spears.
Kalamita swung her whole form lithely about to where Koryphu was standing. "Say to Zitu's Mouthpiece that so we treat his spies."
"Aye," he made answer gruffly. "Small doubt but I shall narrate to Zitu's Mouthpiece many things."