Sparhawk twisted around and signalled to Ulath to pull him back up again.
‘Well?’ Kalten asked him.
‘It’s all one big room,’ Sparhawk murmured. ‘The idol is over on the far side, and there are wide terraces leading down to a floor in the middle.’
‘What’s that noise?’ Tynian asked.
‘They’re holding some sort of rite. I think that chant’s a part of it.’
‘I’m not concerned about their religion,’ Ulath rumbled. ‘Are there any soldiers?’
Sparhawk shook his head.
‘That’s helpful. Anything else?’
‘Yes. I need some magic, Sephrenia. Martel and the others are gathered on the top terrace. They’re about a hundred paces off to the right. We need to know what they’re saying. Are we close enough for your spell to work?’
She nodded. ‘Let’s move back away from the stairs,’ she suggested. ‘The spell makes a certain amount of light, and we don’t want anyone to know that we’re here just yet.’
They retreated back along the dusty pathway, and Sephrenia took Sir Bevier’s polished shield from Berit. ‘This should do it,’ she said. She quickly cast the spell and released it. The knights gathered around the suddenly glowing shield, peering at the hazy figures appearing on its mirror-like surface. The voices coming from the image were tinny-sounding, but they were intelligible.
‘Thine assurances to me that my gold would buy thee that throne from which thou couldst further our purposes were hollow, Annias,’ Otha was saying in that gurgling rumble.
‘It was Sparhawk again, Your Majesty,’ Annias tried to excuse himself in an almost grovelling tone. ‘He disrupted things – as we had feared he would.’
‘Sparhawk!’ Otha spat out a foul oath and slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne-like litter. ‘The man’s existence doth canker my soul. His very name doth cause me pain. Thou wert to keep him away from Chyrellos, Martel. Why didst thou fail me and my God?’
‘I didn’t really fail, Your Majesty,’ Martel replied calmly, ‘and neither did Annias for that matter. Putting His Grace on the Archprelate’s throne was only a means to an end, and we’ve achieved that end. Bhelliom is under this very roof. The scheme to elevate Annias so that he could force the Elenes to surrender the jewel to us was filled with uncertainties. This has been much faster and much more direct. Results are what Azash wants, Your Majesty, not the success or failure of any of the interim steps.’
Otha grunted. ‘Perhaps,’ he conceded, ‘but Bhelliom hath not been passively delivered into the possession of our God. It doth still lie in the hands of this Sparhawk. Ye have put armies in his path and he doth easily o’erwhelm them. Our Master hath sent servants more horrible than death itself to slay him, and he lives yet.’
‘Sparhawk’s only a man, after all,’ Lycheas said in his whining voice. ‘His luck can’t last forever.’
Otha threw a look at Lycheas that quite plainly spoke of death. Arissa put her arm protectively around her son’s shoulders and looked as if she were about to come to his defence, but Annias shook his head warningly.
‘Thou hast defiled thyself by acknowledging this bastard of thine, Annias,’ Otha declared in a tone of towering contempt. He paused, looking at them. ‘Can none of ye understand?’ he suddenly roared. ‘This Sparhawk is Anakha, the unknown. The destinies of all men are clearly visible – all men save Anakha. Anakha moves outside destiny. Even the Gods fear him. He and Bhelliom are linked in some way beyond the comprehension of the men or the Gods of this world, and the Goddess Aphrael serves them. We do not know their purpose. All that doth save us from them lies in the fact that Bhelliom’s submission to Sparhawk is reluctant. Should it ever yield to him willingly, he will be a God.’
‘But he’s not a God yet, Your Majesty,’ Martel smiled. ‘He’s trapped in that maze, and he’ll never leave his companions behind to assault us alone. Sparhawk’s predictable. That’s why Azash accepted Annias and me. We know Sparhawk, and we know what he’ll do.’
‘And didst thou know that he would succeed as he hath?’ Otha sneered. ‘Didst thou know that his coming here would threaten our very existence – and the existence of our God?’
Martel looked at the obscenely cavorting figures on the floor below. ‘How long will that continue?’ he asked. ‘We need some guidance from Azash at this point, and we can’t get His attention while that’s going on.’
‘The rite is nearly complete,’ Otha told him. ‘The celebrants are beyond exhaustion. They will die soon.’
‘Good. Then we’ll be able to speak with our Master. He’s also in danger.’
‘Martel!’ Otha said sharply, his voice filled with alarm. ‘Sparhawk hath broken out of the maze! He hath reached the pathway to the temple!’
‘Summon men to stop him!’ Martel barked.
‘I have, but they are far behind him. He will reach us before they can hinder him.’
‘We must rouse Azash!’ Annias cried in a shrill voice.
‘To interrupt this rite is death,’ Otha declared.
Martel straightened and took his ornate helmet out from under his arm. ‘Then it’s up to me, I guess,’ he said bleakly.
Sparhawk raised his head. From far off in the direction of the palace he could hear the sound of battering rams pounding on a stone wall. ‘That’s enough,’ he said to Sephrenia. ‘We have to move. Otha’s called soldiers to break down that wall that leads to the stairs near the palace.’
‘I hope Bevier and Talen are out of sight,’ Kalten said.
‘They are,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Bevier knows what he’s doing. We’re going to have to go down into the temple. This attic – or whatever you want to call it – is too open. If we try to fight here, we’ll have soldiers coming at us from all sides.’ He looked at Sephrenia. ‘Is there some way we can block those stairs behind us?’ he asked her.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I think so,’ she replied.
‘You sound a bit dubious.’
‘No, not really. I can block the stairway easily enough, but I can’t be sure whether Otha knows the counterspell.’
‘He won’t know that you’ve blocked it until his soldiers arrive and can’t come down the stairs, will he?’ Tynian asked her.
‘No. Actually he won’t. Very good, Tynian.’
‘Do we just run around that top terrace and confront the idol?’ Kalten asked.
‘We can’t,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘Otha’s a magician, you remember. He’d be hurling spells at our backs every step of the way. We’ll have to confront him directly.’
‘And Martel as well,’ Sparhawk added. ‘Now then, Otha doesn’t dare to interrupt Azash while that rite’s going on. We can take advantage of that. All we’ll have to worry about is Otha himself. Can we deal with him, Sephrenia?’
She nodded. ‘Otha’s not brave,’ she replied. ‘If we threaten him, he’ll use his power to shield himself from us. He’ll count on the soldiers coming from the palace to deal with us.’
‘We’ll try it,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Are we all ready then?’
They nodded.
‘Just be careful,’ he told them, ‘and I don’t want any interference when I go after Martel. All right, let’s go.’
They went to the head of the stairs, paused a moment, then drew in a collective deep breath and marched down with drawn weapons.
‘Ah, there you are, old boy,’ Sparhawk drawled to Martel, deliberately imitating the white-haired renegade’s nonchalance, ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘I was right here, Sparhawk,’ Martel replied, drawing his sword.
‘So I see. I must have been turned around somehow. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Splendid. I hate being tardy.’ He looked them over. ‘Good. I see that we’re all here.’ He looked a bit more closely at the Primate of Cimmura. ‘Really, Annias, you should try to get more sun. You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘Oh, before you two ge
t started, Martel,’ Kalten said, ‘I brought you a present – a little memento of our visit. I’m sure you’ll cherish it always.’ He bent slightly and gave the cloak he was carrying a little flip, holding one edge firmly in his gauntleted fist. The cloak unfurled on the onyx floor. Adus’s head rolled out and bounced across to stop at Martel’s feet, where it lay staring up at him.
‘How very kind of you, Sir Kalten,’ Martel said from between clenched teeth. Seemingly indifferent, he kicked the head off to one side. ‘I’m sure that obtaining this gift for me cost you a great deal.’
Sparhawk’s fist tightened about his sword-hilt, and his brain seethed with hatred. ‘It cost me Kurik, Martel,’ he said in a flat voice, ‘and now it’s time to settle accounts.’
Martel’s eyes widened briefly. ‘Kurik?’ he said in a stunned voice. ‘I didn’t expect that. I’m truly sorry, Sparhawk. I liked him. If you ever get back to Demos, give Aslade my sincerest apologies.’
‘I don’t think so, Martel. I won’t insult Aslade by mentioning your name to her. Shall we get on with this?’ Sparhawk began to move forward, his shield braced and his sword-point moving slowly back and forth like the head of a snake. Kalten and the others grounded their weapons and stood watching grimly.
‘A gentleman to the end, I see,’ Martel said, putting on his helmet and moving away from Otha’s litter to give himself fighting room. ‘Your good manners and your sense of fair play will be the death of you yet, Sparhawk. You had the advantage. You should have used it.’
‘I’m not going to need it, Martel. You still have a moment or two for repentance. I’d advise you to use the time well.’
Martel smiled thinly. ‘I don’t think so, Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘I made my choice. I won’t demean myself by changing it now.’ He clapped down his visor.
They struck simultaneously, their swords ringing on each other’s shields. They had trained together under Kurik’s instruction as boys, so there was no possibility of some trick or feint giving either of them an opening. They were so evenly matched that there was no way to predict the outcome of this duel which had been a decade and more in the preparation.
Their first strokes were tentative as they carefully felt each other out, looking for alterations in technique or changes in their relative strength. To the untrained onlooker their hammering at each other might have seemed frenzied and without thought, but that was not the case. Neither of them was so enraged as to overextend himself and leave himself open. Great dents appeared in their shields, and showers of sparks cascaded down over them each time their sword-edges clashed against each other. Back and forth they struggled, moving slowly away from the spot where Otha’s jewelled litter sat and where Annias, Arissa and Lycheas stood watching, wide-eyed and breathless. That too was a part of Sparhawk’s strategy. He needed to draw Martel away from Otha so that Kalten and the others could menace the bloated emperor. To gain that end, he retreated a few paces now and then when it was not actually necessary, drawing Martel step by step away from his friends.
‘You must be getting old, Sparhawk,’ Martel panted, hammering at his former brother’s shield.
‘No more than you are, Martel.’ Sparhawk delivered a massive blow that staggered his opponent.
Kalten, Ulath and Tynian, followed by Berit, who swung Sir Bevier’s hideous lochaber, fanned out to advance on Otha and Annias. Slug-like Otha waved one arm, and a shimmering barrier appeared around his litter and Martel’s companions.
Sparhawk felt the faintest of tingles along the back of his neck, and he knew that Sephrenia was weaving the spell which would block the stairs. He rushed at Martel, swinging his sword as rapidly as he could to so distract the white-haired man that he would not feel that faint familiar sensation which always accompanied the release of a friend’s spell. Sephrenia had trained Martel, and he would know her touch.
The fight raged on. Sparhawk was panting and sweating now, and his sword-arm ached with weariness. He stepped back, lowering his sword slightly in the traditional wordless suggestion that they pause for long enough to get their breath. That suggestion was never considered a sign of weakness.
Martel also lowered his sword in agreement. ‘Almost like old times, Sparhawk,’ he panted, pushing open his visor.
‘Close,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘You’ve picked up some new tricks, I see.’ He also opened his visor.
‘I spent too much time in Lamorkand. Lamork swordsmanship is clumsy, though. Your technique seems to be a little Rendorish.’
‘Ten years of exile there,’ Sparhawk shrugged, breathing deeply as he tried to regain his wind.
‘Vanion would skin both of us if he saw us flailing at each other this way.’
‘He probably would. Vanion’s a perfectionist.’
‘That’s God’s own truth.’
They stood panting and staring intently into each other’s eyes, watching for that minuscule narrowing that would preface a surprise blow. Sparhawk could feel the ache slowly draining from his right shoulder. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked finally.
‘Any time you are.’
They clanged their visors shut again and resumed the fight.
Martel launched a complicated and extended series of sword-strokes. The series was familiar, since it was one of the oldest, and its conclusion was inevitable. Sparhawk moved his shield and his sword in the prescribed defence, but he had known as soon as Martel swung the first stroke that he was going to receive a near-stunning blow to the head. Kurik, however, had devised a modification to the Pandion helmet not long after Martel’s expulsion from the order, and when the renegade swung his heavy blow at Sparhawk’s head, Sparhawk ducked his chin slightly to take the stroke full on the crest of his helmet – a crest which was now heavily reinforced. His ears rang nonetheless, and his knees buckled slightly. He was, however, able to parry the follow-up stroke which might well have disabled him.
Martel’s reactions seemed somehow slower than Sparhawk remembered them as having been. His own blows, he conceded, probably no longer had the crisp snap of youth. They were both older, and an extended duel with a man of equal strength and skill ages one rapidly.
Then he suddenly understood, and the action came simultaneously with understanding. He unleashed a series of overhand strokes at Martel’s head, and the renegade was forced to protect himself with both sword and shield. Then Sparhawk followed that flurry to the head with the traditional body-thrust. Martel knew it was coming, of course, but he simply could not move his shield rapidly enough to protect himself. The point of Sparhawk’s sword crunched into his armour low on the right side of his chest and drove deeply into his body. Martel stiffened, and coughed a great spray of blood out through the slots of his visor. He tried weakly to keep his shield and sword up, but his hands were trembling violently. His legs began to shake. His sword fell from his hand, and his shield dropped to his side. He coughed again, a wet, tearing sound. Blood poured from his visor once more, and he slowly collapsed in a heap, face down. ‘Finish it, Sparhawk,’ he gasped.
Sparhawk pushed him over onto his back with one foot. He raised his sword, then lowered it again. He knelt beside the dying man. ‘There’s no need,’ he said quietly, opening Martel’s visor.
‘How did you manage that?’ Martel asked.
‘It’s that new armour of yours. It’s too heavy. You got tired and started to slow down.’
‘There’s a certain justice there,’ Martel said, trying to breathe shallowly so that the blood rapidly filling his lungs would not choke him again. ‘Killed by my own vanity.’
‘That’s probably what kills us all – eventually.’
‘It was a good fight, though.’
‘Yes. It was.’
‘And we finally found out which of us is the best. Perhaps it’s the time for truth. I never had any real doubts, you know.’
‘I did.’
Sparhawk knelt quietly, listening to Martel’s breathing growing shallower and shallower. ‘Lakus died, you know,’ he said quietly, ‘and Olv
en.’
‘Lakus and Olven? I didn’t know that. Was I in any way responsible?’
‘No. It was something else.’
‘That’s some small comfort anyway. Could you call Sephrenia for me, Sparhawk? I’d like to say goodbye to her.’
Sparhawk raised his arm and motioned to the woman who had trained them both.
Her eyes were full of tears as she knelt across Martel’s body from Sparhawk. ‘Yes, dear one?’ she said to the dying man.
‘You always said I’d come to a bad end, little mother,’ Martel said wryly, his voice no more than a whisper now, ‘but you were wrong. This isn’t so bad at all. It’s almost like a formal deathbed. I get to depart in the presence of the only two people I’ve ever really loved. Will you bless me, little mother?’
She put her hands to his face and spoke gently in Styric. Then, weeping, she bent and kissed his pallid forehead.
When she raised her face again, he was dead.
Chapter 30
Sparhawk rose to his feet and helped Sephrenia to stand.
‘Are you all right, dear one?’ she whispered.
‘I’m well enough.’ Sparhawk stared hard at Otha.
‘Congratulations, Sir Knight,’ Otha rumbled ironically, his sweaty head gleaming in the light of the fires, ‘and I thank thee. Long have I pondered the problem of Martel. He sought, methinks, to rise above himself, and his usefulness to me ended when thou and thy companions brought Bhelliom to me. I am well rid of him.’
‘Call it a farewell gift, Otha.’
‘Oh? Art thou leaving?’
‘No, but you are.’
Otha laughed. It was a revolting sound.
‘He’s afraid, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia whispered. ‘He’s not sure that you can’t break through his shield.’
‘Can I?’
‘I’m not sure either. He’s very vulnerable now, though, because Azash is totally distracted by that rite.’
‘That’s a place to start then.’ Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and started towards the bloated Emperor of Zemoch.
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