Chapter I

Clouds obscured the three moons as the men slipped into the village. They eased the double-bitted axes out of their belts and felt their way through the almost unrelieved blackness until their hands met the soft yieldings of the door hangings. Waiting until the whisper of leather gliding over the ground stopped, telling him everyone was in position, Luke Royceton drew in a deep breath, then suddenly screamed:

“Aiieeeee!”

At his banshee signal, the other men took up the cry. Somebody kicked the banked coals of the cooking fire into life and stuck in a handful of twisted grass torches, then moved from man to man, handing them out. The men screamed again, touched their torches to the over-hanging of the huts, then tore down the hangings and leaped through the doors, torches flaming a path.

The interiors of the huts leaped to life. Forms hurtled by the men and into the night as the pitch-caulked thatching blazed into an inferno. The rightful inhabitants of the huts crashed into the tall grass of the surrounding plains, the sounds of their passage quickly dying away as fear lent wing to their rapidly fleeing heels.

The fires quickly burned through the thatching, sending little fingers of flame dancing along the lashed saplings that supported the roofs. Luke took one last look around the interior of his hut and started to leave, when he spotted something wriggling under a pile of skins.

Crossing the room in three strides, he tore away the coverings and grabbed the native child by the scruff of its neck. He wheeled on one heel and retraced his passage. He got out of the door just as the saplings gave up the ghost and the fiery mass crashed to the ground.

Luke whistled and wiped sweat from his brow. The bronze head of the axe caught and reflected the fires from its myriad beaten facets. Using the head, he beat out several sparks that had landed on his clothes, then turned his attention to the child who still dangled from his other hand.

The child’s eyes were rolled nearly into his head with his fright. Luke grinned, baring his teeth. He brought the child up until their noses were less than an inch apart. The fetid smell of the child’s breath made him choke. Yelping, the child twisted free and ran after its already-departed parents.

Luke laughed and turned his attention to his team.

The men were all out now, watching the huts crack under the intense heat within. One shuddered, then collapsed inward, sending up choking clouds of dust as it smothered the flames. After a moment, Luke whistled. Half of the men melted into the grass and followed the natives, while the others gathered around him, squatting and resting their axes on the ground. Luke waited until the others returned to report no further sign of the villagers, then he squatted himself, and accepted a canteen from someone. He drank his fill, gasped, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and handed the canteen back.

“It’s hot,” he said, conversationally.

“It’ll be hotter before we’re done,” said one of the team. They were all dressed in rough-cured skins and leather moccasins. The axes were the only tool they carried. Faces thick with war paint and grime, it was impossible to tell them from natives.

“Anybody hurt?” asked Luke. Disclaimers came from the various members of the group. “Good.” He stood up and stretched. “Well, gentlemen, shall we be on our way?”

“Might as well.”

Luke took his axe, twisted the unfinished handle a quarter-turn in his socket, then held the head to his lips. “Team B,” he said. “Mission accomplished.” He twisted the handle back and slipped the axe into his belt. A few moments later, the soft chatter of rotors cut through the air, and a copter dropped into the clearing by the cooking fire.

The team mounted by the dying glow of the fires. As soon as the last man was in, the door swung shut and the copter took off into the night.

Sam Carter eased the scratchy material of the ruffed collar away from his neck, then shot his cuffs to return them to the socially acceptable half-inch showing beyond his jacket sleeve. He sighed, placed his hands on his knees and glanced for the umpteenth time at the armored soldiers guarding the door between the anteroom and Prince Kahl’s private chambers. The afternoon sun dipped below the level of the high window-slits, sending shadows scampering up the walls.

Sam had been waiting since noon. His stomach was repeating its rumbled protests against that interrupted meal. Prince Kahl had sent word that Sam might wait upon his pleasure; quieting misgivings, Carter had rushed to do just that.

He sighed again, and stifled a yawn. From the corner of his eye, he watched the shadow line marching up the wall. When it touched the cobwebby corner of the ceiling, a slave came in and lighted a pair of oil lamps. The soot-heavy smoke they gave off quickly had Sam wishing the room had been left in darkness.

Another interminable hour passed, during which he several times repeated the operation with collar and cuffs, all the while envying the guards their ability to remain in one position like frozen statues, seemingly carved from the living rock of the palace. At last, just when he had resigned himself to the probability of spending the night in the anteroom, the inner door swung open and a chamberlain beckoned.

“Prince Kahl will grant you a moment now.”

Sam bowed his thanks, and followed the man into Kahl’s chambers.

“Ah, my friend from the southern kingdoms!”

Prince Kahl was a lean, saturnine individual, uncomfortably aware that the prime of life was slipping through his grasp while his father obstinately held onto the throne. It was Kahl’s considered opinion that the old man had lived long enough. It rankled him to realize that he had held the same opinions as a youth barely out of his teens. The thirty intervening years had been spent devising and trying methods to assure his succession; unfortunately his father had twenty years before that to safeguard his own rule.

“How go the southern kingdoms, my friend?” Kahl waved a particularly enticing fruit as Carter stopped short, a dozen paces away.

“Tolerably well, your graciousness.” He neglected to add that it had been nearly a year since he had visited the supposed lands of his birth. Kahl was fully aware how long Carter had been kept cooling his heels. Palace protocol dictated how long foreign visitors might be kept waiting. But even visiting royalty could not hope for an audience in less than a month’s time. In his role as ambassador, Carter was happy that a year was all he had been kept waiting.

“Your lord and master’s gifts were received,” said Kahl. “You may inform him of my royal gratitude.”

“My humble thanks, your graciousness.” Sam’s mouth watered as Kahl polished off the one fruit and selected another from a platter born by a manservant. Despite his now-long stay on the planet, Sam still could not understand why women were given no role at all in society, even as slaves.

“Not at all, not at all,” said Kahl. “Now tell me. What is it that brought you so far from your home lands to grace my humble presence?”

“The usual business of politic, your graciousness,” said Sam, growing weary of the necessity to repeat the title with every reply to Kahl’s words. He also wished for a chair, despite the fact that he had been sitting all afternoon. He felt like a naughty schoolchild, standing always in the man’s presence. “Trade treaties, mutual armament pacts, the like.”