V
The high priest's face lit, and Alfric realized dully that Therokos, too, loved the queen—in his own cold way. "You do well, beautiful one," he said shakily. He came over and kissed her and fondled her stiff body. "You have never done better, black witch. Now come—to your wedding."
He signed to the two slaves, who sconced their torches and took a key from their master. They unlocked Hildaborg's chains, and she almost fell into Therokos' arms.
He caressed her, murmuring softly. "There, dear, easy—you will wash and eat and rest, you will wear the robes of honor—be at ease, you are safe now, you are mine forever."
"Aye—" She braced herself, every muscle tautened under the silken skin, and suddenly she hurled the priest from her—sent him staggering against Alfric. "Kill!" she screamed.
The barbarian snarled, wild with a sudden murderous glory, and his manacled hands shot out. One gripped Therokos over the mouth, and the other sank steely fingers into the wattled throat.
The two slaves sprang at him like wild garms. Knives flashed in the bloody light. Hildaborg snatched a torch and swept its flaming end across the eyes of one. He screamed wordlessly, rolling over and over, clawing at his face. Hildaborg snatched up his dagger and lunged at the other.
Alfric groaned. What chance did she have against the deadly experience of a Temple assassin?—Therokos had gone limp. Alfric flung the heavy body crashing into the slave. They went down together. Hildaborg leaped in, her knife rising and falling and rising again, streaming red.
Then she was in his arms, shaken by wild sobbing. He held her close, kissed her, stroked her hair, and had time for a dim wondering amazement that such a woman should have lain in his—his—fate.