‘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.

Otha flinched back and made a quick signal to the half-naked brutes around him. The bearers picked up the litter upon which he grossly sprawled and started towards the terraces leading down towards the onyx floor where the naked celebrants, twitching and blank-faced with exhaustion, continued their obscene rite. Annias, Arissa and Lycheas went with him, their eyes fearful as they stayed as close to his litter as possible to remain within the questionable safety of the glowing nimbus of his protective shield. When the litter reached the onyx floor, Otha shouted to the green-robed priests, and they rushed forward, their faces alight with mindless devotion as they drew weapons from beneath their vestments.

From behind them, Sparhawk heard a sudden cry of frustrated chagrin. The soldiers rushing to the aid of their emperor had just encountered Sephrenia’s barrier. ‘Will it hold?’ he asked her.

‘It will unless one of those soldiers is stronger than I am.’

‘Not too likely. That leaves only the priests then.’ He looked at his friends. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said to them. ‘Let’s form up around Sephrenia and clear a path through here.’

The priests of Azash wore no armour, and the way they handled their weapons showed little evidence of skill. They were Styric for the most part, and the sudden appearance of hostile Church Knights in the holy centre of their religion had startled them and filled them with dismay. Sparhawk remembered something Sephrenia had once said. Styrics, she had told him, do not react well when they are surprised. The unexpected tends to confound them. He could feel a faint prickling sensation as he and his armoured friends started down the stair-stepped terraces, a prickling that told him that some few of the priests at least were attempting to put some form of spell together. He roared an Elene war cry, a harsh bellow filled with a lust for blood and violence. The prickling evaporated. ‘Lots of noise, gentlemen!’ he shouted to his friends. ‘Keep them off-balance so they can’t use magic!’

The Church Knights rushed down the black terraces bellowing war cries and brandishing their weapons. The priests recoiled, and then the knights were on them.

Berit pushed past Sparhawk, his eyes alight with enthusiasm and Sir Bevier’s lochaber at the ready. ‘Save your strength, Sparhawk,’ he said gruffly, trying to make his voice deeper, more roughly masculine. He stepped purposefully in front of the startled Sparhawk and strode into the green-robed ranks facing them, swinging the lochaber like a scythe.

Sparhawk reached out to pull him back, but Sephrenia laid her hand on his wrist. ‘No, Sparhawk,’ she said. ‘This is important to him, and he’s in no particular danger.’

Otha had reached the polished altar in front of the idol and was staring at the carnage below in openmouthed fright. Then he drew himself up. ‘Approach then, Sparhawk!’ he blustered. ‘My God grows impatient!’

‘I doubt that, Otha,’ Sparhawk called back. ‘Azash wants Bhelliom, but he doesn’t want me to deliver it to him, because he doesn’t know what I’m going to do with it.’

‘Very good, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia murmured. ‘Use your advantage. Azash will sense Otha’s uncertainty, and He’ll feel the same way.’

The temple echoed with the noise of blows, shrieks and groans as Sparhawk’s friends systematically slaughtered the green-robed priests. They chopped their way through the tightly-packed ranks until they reached the foot of the first terrace below the altar.

In spite of everything, Sparhawk felt tightly exultant. He had not expected to make it this far, and his unexpected survival filled him with a sense of euphoric invincibility. ‘Well, Otha,’ he said, looking up those stair-stepped terraces at the bloated emperor, ‘why don’t you awaken Azash? Let’s find out if the Elder Gods know how to die as well as men do.’

Otha gaped at him, then scrambled from his litter and crumpled to the floor as his puny legs refused to support him. ‘Kneel!’ he half-screamed at Annias. ‘Kneel and pray to our God for deliverance!’ The notion that his soldiers could not enter the temple obviously frightened Otha considerably.

‘Kalten,’ Sparhawk called to his friend, ‘finish up with the priests, and then make sure that those soldiers don’t break through and rush us from behind.’

‘That’s not necessary, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said.

‘I know, but it should keep them back out of harm’s way.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Here we go, then.’ He shook off his gauntlets, tucked his sword-blade under his arm and took the steel-mesh pouch from his belt. He unwrapped the wire which bound the pouch shut and shook Bhelliom out into his hand. The jewel seemed very hot, and light, wavering like heat-lightning on a summer’s night, seethed among its petals. ‘Blue-Rose!’ he said sharply. ‘You must do as I command!’

Otha, half-kneeling, half-squatting, was babbling a prayer to his God – a prayer made almost unintelligible by his fright. Annias, Lycheas and Arissa also knelt, and they stared up at the hideous face of the idol looming above them. Their eyes were filled with horror as they more closely beheld the reality of that God they had so willingly chosen to follow.

‘Come, Azash!’ Otha pleaded. ‘Awaken! Hear the prayer of thy servants!’

The idol’s deep-sunk eyes had been closed, but now they slowly opened, and that greenish fire blazed from them. Sparhawk felt wave upon wave of malevolence blazing at him from those baleful eyes, and he stood, stunned into near-insensibility by the titanic presence of a God.

The idol was moving! A kind of undulation rippled down its body and the tentacle-like arms sinuously reached forth – reaching towards the glowing stone in Sparhawk’s hand, yearning towards the one thing in all the world which offered restoration and freedom.

‘No!’ Sparhawk’s voice was a harsh rasp. He raised his sword above the Bhelliom. ‘I’ll destroy it!’ he threatened, ‘– and you along with it!’