The Sapphire Rose

Beyond the palace Sparhawk could see the swelling dome of the temple of Azash, a perfect rusty-black hemisphere constructed of huge, rigidly symmetrical hexagonal blocks of basalt which gave it the appearance of the nest of some enormous insect or some vast infected wound.

The area surrounding the palace and the adjoining temple was a kind of paved dead zone where there were no buildings nor trees nor monuments. It was simply a flat place extending out perhaps two hundred yards from the walls. It was lighted on this darkest of nights by thousands of torches thrust at random into the cracks between the flagstones to form what almost appeared to be a knee-high field of tossing fire.

The broad avenue which the knights were following appeared to continue directly across the fiery plaza to the main portal of the house of Otha, where it entered with undiminished breadth through the widest and highest pair of arched doors Sparhawk had ever seen. Those doors stood ominously open.

The guards stood in the space between the walls and that broad grain-field of torches. They were armoured, but their armour was more fantastic than any Sparhawk had ever seen. Their helmets had been wrought into the shape of skulls, and they were surmounted by branching steel antlers. The various joints – shoulder and elbow, hip and knee – were decorated with long spikes and flaring protrusions. Their forearms were studded with hooks, and the weapons they grasped were not so much weapons of death but of pain, with saw-tooth edges and razor-like barbs. Their shields were large and hideously painted.

Sir Tynian was Deiran, and Deirans from time immemorial have been the world’s experts on armour. ‘Now that’s the most idiotic display of pure childishness I’ve ever seen in my life,’ he said contemptuously to the others during a momentary lull in the thunder.

‘Oh?’ Kalten said.

‘Their armour’s almost useless. Good armour is supposed to protect the man wearing it but to give him a certain freedom of movement. There’s not much point in turning yourself into a turtle.’

‘It looks sort of intimidating, though.’

‘That’s all it really is – something worn for its appearance. All those spikes and hooks are useless, and worse yet, they’ll just guide an opponent’s weapon to vulnerable points. What were their armourers thinking of?’

‘It’s a legacy from the last war,’ Sephrenia explained. ‘The Zemochs were overwhelmed by the appearance of the Church Knights. They didn’t understand the actual purpose of armour – only its frightening appearance, so their armourers concentrated on appearance rather than utility. Zemochs don’t wear armour to protect themselves; they wear it to frighten their opponents.’

‘I’m not the least bit frightened, little mother,’ Tynian said gaily. ‘This is going to be almost too easy.’

Then at some signal only Otha’s hideously-garbed warriors could perceive, they all broke into that mindless wailing, a kind of gibbering howl devoid of any meaning.

‘Is that supposed to be some kind of war-cry?’ Berit asked nervously.

‘It’s about the best they can manage,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘Zemoch culture is basically Styric, and Styrics don’t know anything about war. Elenes shout when they go to war. Those guards are just trying to imitate the sound.’

‘Why don’t you take out the Bhelliom and erase them, Sparhawk?’ Talen suggested.

‘No!’ Sephrenia said sharply. ‘The Troll-Gods are confined now. Let’s not turn them loose again until we’re in the presence of Azash. There’s not too much point in unleashing Bhelliom on common soldiers and risking what we came here to do.’

‘She has a point,’ Tynian conceded.

‘They aren’t moving,’ Ulath said, looking at the guards. ‘I’m sure they can see us, but they aren’t making any effort to form up and protect that doorway. If we can smash through to the door, go inside and close it behind us, we won’t have to worry about them any more.’

‘Now that may just be the most inept plan I’ve ever heard,’ Kalten scoffed.

‘Can you think of a better one?’

‘No, as a matter of fact, I can’t.’

‘Well then?’

The knights formed up in their customary wedge formation and strode rapidly towards the gaping portal of Otha’s palace. As they approached through that fiery field, an oddly familiar reek came momentarily to Sparhawk’s nostrils.

As quickly as it had begun, the meaningless howling broke off, and the guards in their skull-faced armour stood motionless. They did not brandish their weapons or even attempt to gather more force before the portal. They simply stood.

Again there came that penetrating reek, but it was quickly swept away by a sudden wind. The lightning redoubled its fury and began to blast great chunks from nearby buildings with deafening crashes. The air about them seemed suddenly tinglingly alive.

‘Down!’ Kurik barked sharply. ‘Everybody get down on the ground!’

They did not understand, but they all immediately obeyed, diving for the ground with a great clattering of their armour.

The reason for Kurik’s alarmed shout became immediately apparent. Two of the grotesquely armoured guards to the left of the massive doors were suddenly engulfed in a brilliant ball of bluish fire and were quite literally blasted to pieces. Their fellows did not move or even turn to look as scorched bits and pieces of armour showered upon them.

‘It’s the armour!’ Kurik shouted over the crashing thunder. ‘Steel attracts lightning! Stay down!’

The lightning continued to blast down into the metalclad ranks of the skull-faced guardsmen, and the smell of burning flesh and hair gusted back across the broad plaza as the sudden wind swirled and rebounded from the high basalt walls of the palace.

‘They’re not even moving!’ Kalten exclaimed. ‘Nobody’s that disciplined.’

Then as the storm continued its ponderous march, the sudden flurry of lightning moved on to shatter deserted houses instead of steel-clad men.

‘Is it all right now?’ Sparhawk demanded of his squire.

‘I don’t know for certain,’ Kurik told him. ‘If you start to feel any kind of tingling, get down immediately.’

They rose warily to their feet. ‘Was that Azash?’ Tynian asked Sephrenia.

‘I don’t think so. If Azash had thrown the lightning, I don’t think he’d have missed us. It might have been Otha, though. Until we get to the temple, we’re more likely to encounter Otha’s work than anything conjured up by Azash.’