The entire temple shuddered, and Sparhawk felt a sudden oppressive sense of heaviness bearing down on him as if the air itself had the weight of tons. The flames of the huge fires sickened, lowering into fitful flickers as if some great weight pressed them down, smothering them.

And then the vast dome of the temple exploded upward and outward, hurling the hexagonal blocks of basalt miles away. With a sound that was beyond sound, the fires belched upward, becoming enormous pillars of intensely brilliant flame, columns that shot up through the gaping hole that had been the dome to illuminate the pregnant bellies of the clouds which had spawned the thunderstorm. Higher and higher those incandescent columns roared, searing the cloud mass above. And still they reared higher, wreathed with lightning as they burned the clouds away and ascended still into the darkness above, reaching towards the glittering stars.

Sparhawk, implacable and unrelenting, held the Sapphire Rose against the body of Azash, the skin of his wrist crawling as the God’s tiny, impotent tentacles clutched at it as a mortally stricken warrior might clutch at the arm of a foe slowly twisting a sword-blade in his vitals. The voice of Azash, Elder God of Styricum, was a tiny squeal, a puny wail such as any small creature might make as it died. Then a change came over the little idol. Whatever had made it adhere together was gone, and with a slithering kind of sigh it came apart and settled into a heap of dust.

The great columns of flame slowly subsided, and the air which flooded into the ruined temple from the outside once again had the chill of winter.

Sparhawk felt no sense of triumph as he straightened. He looked at the Sapphire Rose glowing in his hand. He could feel its terror, and he could dimly hear the whimpering of the Troll-Gods locked in its azure heart.

Flute had somehow stumbled back down the terraces and wept in Sephrenia’s arms.

‘It’s over, Blue-Rose,’ Sparhawk said wearily to the Bhelliom. ‘Rest now.’ He slipped the jewel back into the pouch and absently twisted the wire to hold it shut.

There was the sound of running then, of frantic flight. Princess Arissa and her son fled down the onyx terraces towards the shiny floor below. So great was their fright that neither appeared to be even aware of the other as they stumbled down and down. Lycheas was younger than his mother, and his flight was swifter. He left her behind, leaping, falling, scrambling back to his feet again as he bolted.

Ulath, his face like stone, was waiting for him at the bottom – with his axe.

Lycheas shrieked once, and then his head flew out in a long, curving arc and landed on the onyx floor with a sickening sound such as a dropped melon might make.

‘Lycheas!’ Arissa shrieked in horror as her son’s headless body fell limply at Ulath’s feet. She stood frozen, gaping at the huge, blond-braided Thalesian who had begun to mount the onyx terraces towards her, his bloody axe half-raised. Ulath was not one to leave a job half-completed.

Arissa fumbled at the sash about her waist, pulled out a small glass vial and struggled to pull the stopper free.

Ulath did not slow his pace.

The vial was open now, and Arissa lifted her face and drank its contents. Her body instantly stiffened, and she gave a hoarse cry. Then she fell twitching to the floor of the terrace, her face black and her tongue protruding from her mouth.

‘Ulath!’ Sephrenia said to the still-advancing Thalesian. ‘No. It isn’t necessary.’

‘Poison?’ he asked her.

She nodded.

‘I hate poison,’ he said, stripping the blood off the edge of his axe with his thumb and forefinger. He flung the blood away and then ran a practised thumb along the edge. ‘It’s going to take a week to polish out all these nicks,’ he said mournfully, turning and starting back down again, leaving the Princess Arissa sprawled on the terrace above him.

Sparhawk retrieved his sword and descended. He felt very, very tired now. He wearily picked up his gauntlets and crossed the littered floor to Berit, who stood staring at him in awe. ‘That was a nice throw,’ he said to the young man, putting his hand on Berit’s armoured shoulder. ‘Thank you, brother.’

Berit’s smile was like the sun coming up.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Sparhawk added, ‘you’d probably better go and find Bevier’s axe. He’s very fond of it.’

Berit grinned. ‘Right away, Sparhawk.’

Sparhawk looked around at the corpse-littered temple, then up through the shattered dome at the stars twinkling overhead in the cold winter sky. ‘Kurik,’ he said without thinking, ‘what time do you make it?’ Then he broke off as a wave of unbearable grief overwhelmed him. He steeled himself. ‘Is everybody all right?’ he asked his friends, looking around. Then he grunted, not really trusting himself to speak. He drew in a deep breath. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said gruffly.

They crossed the polished floor and went up the wide terraces to the top. Somehow in the vast upheaval of the encounter at the altar, all the statues encircling the wall had been shattered. Kalten stepped on ahead and looked up the marble stairs. ‘The soldiers seem to have run off,’ he reported.

Sephrenia countered the spell which had blocked the stairs and they started up.

‘Sephrenia.’ The voice was hardly more than a croak.

‘She’s still alive,’ Ulath said almost accusingly.

‘That happens once in a while,’ Sephrenia said. ‘Sometimes the poison takes a little longer.’

‘Sephrenia, help me. Please help me.’

The small Styric woman turned and looked back across the temple at Princess Arissa, who had weakly raised her head to plead for her life.

Sephrenia’s tone was as cold as death itself. ‘No, Princess,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think so.’ Then she turned again and went on up the stairs with Sparhawk and the rest of them close behind her.

Chapter 31

The wind had changed at some time during the night, and it now blew steadily out of the west, bringing snow with it. The violent thunderstorm which had engulfed the city the previous night had unroofed many houses and exploded others. The streets were littered with debris and with a thin covering of wet snow. Berit had retrieved their horses, and Sparhawk and his friends rode slowly. There was no longer any need for haste. The cart Kalten had found in a side street trundled along behind them with Talen at the reins and Bevier resting in the back with Kurik’s covered body. Kurik, Sephrenia assured them as they set out, would remain untouched by the corruption which is the final destiny of all men. ‘I owe Aslade that much at least,’ she murmured, nestling her cheek against Flute’s glossy black hair. Sparhawk was a bit surprised to find that in spite of everything, he still thought of the Child-Goddess as Flute. She did not look all that much like a Goddess at the moment. She clung to Sephrenia, her face tear-streaked, and each time she opened her eyes, they were filled with horror and despair.




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