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The old, white-haired, newly dead man lay face down upon the floor tiles, the ornate and bejeweled hiltof a dress-dagger jutting up from his back. Beside the body stood the man who had just killed him, abared saber in one hand.
“It had to be done,” he said, his voice sad, regret-ful. “There was never a warrior and leader of warriorsI respected more, but his stubborn, senile sadism was tearing the army apart at the seams, and with it ourCouncil and our future, as well.”
Of the score or so of other men in that chamber, some nodded in agreement, most just stood, staring inshock of the suddenness of the fatal deed, and one burst out bitterly, “Murderer!Back-stabbing
murderer! It’s you deserve to be dead, and if I had a sword …”
The tall, saturnine man with the saber stepped off to one side, waving his hand toward a rack of swordsand a table on which lay an assortment of dirks and dag-gers, saying, “Come up and choose a sword,then, my lord Vikos, and I’ll meet you here and now, or later, ahorse or afoot.”
The shorter, slighter, balding man began to push through the crowd, grim resolution on his shaven face,but near the forefront of the group, he was grabbed by both biceps and shaken mercilessly by a broader,more massive, greying man, who half-shouted, “Now, dam-mit, Vikos—Vikos!Blast your arse, listen tome! Por-tos was right, can’t you see that, man? Yes, I know
