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mount’s heaving, foam-flecked barrel. Valiantly, the well-bred gray gave his best remaining effort, little as that was; but both he and his rider might have saved their exertions, for the east gate remained tightly closed, even when the weary
vahrohneeskos
drew his sword and pounded its pommel upon the thick old timbers.
    Kneeing the staggering, trembling horse out from the gate arch, the rebel nobleman craned his neck until he could see to the top of the gate tower.
    “Damn your eyes, Toorkos!” he roared at the gate sergeant, who was leaning on a merlon. “
You
know who I am! Open the goddam gate! It is imperative that I see Lord Myros at once!”
    But the dark, chunky man shook his balding head. “We dare not raise a single bar, Lord Drehkos. Were we to so much as crack any of the gates, we’d never get them closed, we wouldn’t, ere most of the esteemed citizens of this city were gone, and Lord Myros says that we’ll need them all for either defenders or hostages.”
    Drehkos shrugged. “Then drop me a rope, man.”
    From atop the wall, the city streets resembled nothing so much as an overturned anthill. Women and children, girls and boys and a few men scurried to and fro, seemingly aimlessly. The cacophony of shouts and screams and wails smote painfully upon Drehkos’ ears and helped him to understand why the gate guards appeared so surly and vicious. Half a dozen arrow-studded corpses lay sprawled on the bloody stones just shy of the gate, and, ignored by the throngs, a middle-aged woman dragged herself, slowly, painfully, up High Street, a heavy iron dart shaft standing out from the small of her back.
    “The cowardly pack tried to rush the gate, my lord,” offered the sergeant, Toorkos, when he saw Drehkos eyeing the carnage. “Tried to shift the bars by brute strength, they did. But Lord Myros give us our orders when he posted us here. And we persuaded them to leave them gates be, we did!”
    “Rather sharp persuasion, I’d say,” remarked Drehkos wryly. But the witticism was lost on the sergeant. Drehkos then ordered, “I’ll need a horse, Toorkos, and, from the look of things, probably an escort, as well.”
    But, ignoring alike importunings and orders, Toorkos flatly refused to part with even a single archer or spearman. And of horses he had none, but he at least gave Drehkos a hooded cloak to cover his armor and, hopefully, conceal his identity from the ugly, dangerous mob, until he might win to the city governor’s palace.
    When at last he stood before the huge, ornate, brass-sheathed doors of the building, he was presented with another problem—how to rap loudly enough to gain the attention of those within without also bringing the mob, which he had thus far largely avoided. But he had only put hand to swordhilt, when a small door set within one of the larger ones swung open to reveal the beak-nosed visage of Gahlos Gahlahktios, Lord Myros’ guard captain.
    Thank God you’re safe, lord
vahrohneeskos
! You are…” he began.
    But Drehkos roughly shouldered him aside as he stepped over the high sill and entered the abbreviated courtyard of the palace. “Where,” he snarled, “is your thrice-damned coward of a master? Where cowers the self-proclaimed, oft-proclaimed, ‘Savior of Morguhn,’ eh? In a cellar? In a closet? Under his bed?”
    Before the stuttering officer could frame an answer,
Vahrohnos
Myros stood in the doorway of the palace proper, his handsome, regular features drawn with worry and tension. But his voice was calm and unruffled, albeit a little sad.
    “I am most relieved to see you, Drehkos. You would have ridden with me, had we been able to find you in that unholy mess last night. Have you seen aught of Nathos or Djaimos or Captain Manos?”
    Myros’ evident self-control took some measure of the edge from Drehkos’ anger, and he answered shortly, “Manos is dead, trampled to death in a stampede of his own troops’ horses. The
valiant
Nathos was found wandering,