Then, from another angle of the courtyard, burst a fat, bustling figure. Grensu. His golden armor, once so proud, was now dented in a score of places; there was a red stain upon his forehead, his ripe lips were working with a fearsome rage.
His objective was Meg, and upon her he was advancing, mouthing vile threats.
"So, ivory one, you think to triumph at last? Know, then, that Grensu takes with him in defeat his adversaries!"
And he raised his ray-weapon to cover Meg. For the first time in all those hectic moments, a sense of personal fear weakened the Priestess' knees. It had not seemed ill to die for a worthy cause. But now—when the cause was almost won, and when, in moments, her lover's arms would have been about her—But, as ever, Grensu's vaingloriousness was his own undoing. Once too often had he stayed his vengeance for a speech. Now as his finger tightened on the button that would blast Meg into rancid oblivion a tremendous object came hurtling through the air.
It was Daiv's claymore. Seeing there was no other way to halt Grensu's move, Daiv had heaved it squarely at the dwarfling commander with all the strength his mighty arms possessed. It was like a whistling flail of the Gods as it cleft the air; ripped the ray-tube from Grensu's hand, and with the spitting stick sheared yellow fingers.
Then, even as Grensu howled his pain and turned to flee, Daiv was upon him. He lifted the squat, heavy dwarf, massive armor and all, above his head; shook him as a dog might shake a ground-rat. Grensu's thick lips blubbered incoherent pleas, his eyes bulged wildly. But there was stone in Daiv's breast.
By the head and the calves he grasped the screaming commander; his arms made one sweeping motion. Grensu's fearful bleat ended in a choked wail of agony ... something snapped like a forest twig....
Grensu lay still.