Captain Mijax did not like his orders. His tone was near to insubordination as he demanded, «What of Juna and the priests, Sire? Are we to leave them to the mercy of Hectoris? We must notl Look you, Excellency-I can fortify this square with cobbles, with corpses if need be, and we can stop the Samostans. At least I can hold until Juna and her priests have a chance to escape. I beg you, Sire, let me-«

Blade, little by little, had been creeping out of his hiding place in the shadows. From where he crouched now it was a scant dozen feet to the rear rank. Through the acrid, drifting smoky haze he could see the expression on the older man's face. Gongor's features expressed, all at the same time, impatience and tolerance, pity and anger, admiration and irritation. When he spoke his tone was that used by a father to a rather stupid son.

«You are a fool, Captain. A brave fool, but a fool just the same. It is Juna and the priests who have betrayed us, in their own way and for their own motives. Take my word for it-they are not now worrying about you or your menl If any escape the fire and death it will be Juna and her priests. Now cease to question me and follow your orders. Follow mel We march at once to the north gate. This is a command, Captain.» The white-haired man drew his sword and pointed it at the headless body. «Obey or suffer the fate of that one.»

Captain Mijax scowled, then wheeled about and began to shout orders. The men, sensing some hope of escape, were quick to form into a marching column four abreast. Blade, skulking in the shadows, waited until the last contingent was tramping past, then stepped carelessly into tine. He fumbled with his kilt as though he had been off relieving himself. It proved a needless precaution, for no one paid him the slightest attention. Most of the men around him bore wounds of varying degrees, and all marched in slovenly fashion, morose, heads bowed and feet dragging. Blade, fearing to make himself conspicious in such a company, began to feign a limp.

Far down toward the head of the column a song began. Faint at first, barely heard, an anthem as tattered and uncertain, as ragged, as the men who sang it. Blade, limping along in the rear, made out some of the words.

Juna, goddess of all men, with breasts and thighs didivine. . Juna, who dies and then is born again. . Juna our mother, our sister, our love. . Juna who makes love in Hell, and also in Heaven above.

The soldiers around Blade did not sing. They dragged themselves along and grumbled.

«Old Gongor has the right of it,» said one man. «The Captain is a fool. And he did wrong to kill poor old Copelus. We were mates, Copelus and me. He was no traitor. He fought well. As bravely as any of us, as bravely as the Captain himself. It was wicked to slay him so.»

«Aye,» said another man. «That was wrongly done. But the captain is a brave man and a fine warrior, even though he be short tempered at times.»

Aye-he is brave enough. Brave enough to get us all killed if he had his way.»

A man laughed harshly. «The captain longs for Juna's legs around him-he seeks the reward our goddess bestows on heroes.»

More laughter. «Then he is twice a fool. I never saw a dead man who could make love»

Blade limped along, listening and watching and learning. The goddess Juna, he guessed, must be both real and image. A stone figure and a woman of flesh. Such duality was not uncommon in the religions he had studied back in Home Dimension-the Dalai Lama, for instance, was thought by certain Tibetan sects to be a living incarnation of Buddha.

This Juna, if the statue he had seen was any indication, must be a beautiful young girl. She would, in the nature of such things, be chosen and schooled for goddess-hood by the priests. Ah, the priests. Always the priests. They would hold the real power and call the shots-with Juna as a figurehead.

Juna must reward certain heroes by sleeping with them. Blade had to smile at that and admit that it was better than a medal. A medal could be cold comfort at times. In any case none of it was important at the momentThyme had fallen and, presumably, Juna and her priests were on the run just as the remanent of the army was. As he, Blade, was himself.

A painful blow on his bare legs snapped Blade out of his thoughts. A burly sergeant, sent to tighten up the rear, was laying about with the flat of his sword and shouting: «Keep up, you slow marchers. Step lively now! Tighten up that file. Dress on the man in front and beside you. Look lively now. Lively, I say!»

Blade made a mistake. An inexcusable mistake and one that could well have been fatal. He lost his temper. For only an instant was his guard down, but it was enough. The sergeant did not help matters by striking at Blade a second time. He smacked his sword across the big man's thighs and shouted, «Get on, I said. Step it up.» He looked closer at Blade and added, «I see no wound on you. Why do you lag back here?»

By then it was too late. Blade brought his right fist over in a straight from the shoulder punch that caught the sergeant squarely between the eyes. The man's eyes crossed n surprise and shock, then he slumped to the rough cobbles. The little company of stragglers halted. Every eye was on Blade. Ahead of them the company began to draw away, unaware of mutiny behind it.

Men drew away from Blade as though he were diseased. One man said, «He's dead, like enough. That blow would have killed an ox.»

Blade stared down at the sergeant. He did look dead. But he was never to know. A burly man with a patch on one eye and his arm in a sling, his beard a wild profusion of wiry dark hair, came out of the huddle of Xpen. He gave Blade a broken-toothed grin.

«Did my heart good, that did. He whipped me once, the bastard. Take his head, friend. I'll take his heels, so-«

They were before a house with gaping empty windows. «Swing him,» said the bearded man. His one gray eye gleamed at Blade. «We'll just let him sleep it off in there. Might come on to rain and we wouldn't want the sergeant to get wet.»

They counted three and swung the 'heavy body in through the window. It landed with a crash. The man with the eye patch turned on the others. «Let's get on, then. None of you seen nothing, hearl The lean as talks answers to Nob.»

They straggled on, those that could hastening a bit in an effort to catch up. The man with the eye patch fell in beside Blade, who eyed him warily. He needed an ally, a friend, but this rough character was hardly the type he had had in mind. Blade had been thinking in terms of going directly to the top, as was his custom in DX-he had been casting about for ways and means of meeting Juna and her priests. Or possibly the present conqueror of Thyme, this Hectoris, whoever and wherever he was. But all that would have to wait. Insofar as Blade had made any plans at all-there had certainly been no time for proper thought they consisted of the elementary task of getting out of the ruined city with 'a whole skin. He had heard talk of salt marshes, and the coast, and of a place called Patmos. At the moment it was enough, more than enough, and he knew that he would be lucky to make it. Before he could raise his sights he must survive-this burly rascal who called himself Nob might be useful to that end.

The two of them caught up with the party of wounded and then, as by unspoken agreement, dropped behind a few paces so they could not be overheard.

For a few moments they marched in silence. Blade eyed his new companion warily and was aware that the other was doing the same. Blade waited, enduring that covert inspection. Nob grinned at — him, not exactly an invitation to confidence. The man's front teeth had been broken off at the gum line and the stumps were a dark brown. Blade would have wagered that the man was a rogue, a thief or worse. This did not bother him. Such men had their uses. There was something about the man that he liked even on such short acquaintance-an independent spirit, a blithe `°go to hell» attitude that appealed. And the man was shrewd. Blade found that out now.