The panic was worse, here, too. A good many were trampled and
hurt in the rush to escape, and it became necessary to use paralyzers
to clear a way. That made it worse: everybody was sure that Yat-Zar
was striking sinners dead left and right.
Fortunately, the gates were high enough to let the god through without
losing altitude appreciably. Inside, the mob surged back, clearing a
way across the courtyard. It was only necessary to paralyze a few
here, and the levitated idol and its priestly attendants advanced
toward the stone platform, where the king sat on his throne, flanked
by court functionaries and black-robed priests of Muz-Azin. In front
of this, a rank of Chuldun archers had been drawn up.
"Horv; move Yat-Zar forward about a hundred feet and up about fifty,"
Verkan Vall directed. "Quickly!"
As the six-armed anthropomorphic idol rose and moved closer toward its
saurian rival, Verkan Vall drew his needler, scanning the assemblage
around the throne anxiously.
"_Where is the wicked King?_" a voice thundered--the voice of Stranor
Sleth, speaking into a midget radio tuned to the loud-speaker inside
the idol. "_Where is the blasphemer and desecrator, Kurchuk?_"
"There's Labdurg, in the red tunic, beside the throne," Tammand Drav
whispered. "And that's Ghromdur, the Muz-Azin high priest, beside
him."
Verkan Vall nodded, keeping his eyes on the group on the platform.
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