Then he was surrounded by gold – coins and ingots and lumps the size of a man’s head. A cascade of bright jewels spilled out of nothing to run down over the gold like a river of blue and green and red, a rainbow-hued waterfall of wealth beyond imagining. Then the wealth began to diminish, great chunks of it vanishing to the gross sounds of eating. “Thank you, Ghnomb,’ Sparhawk murmured to the Troll-God of feeding.
An houri of heart-stopping loveliness beckoned to Sparhawk seductively, but was immediately assaulted by a lustful Troll. Sparhawk did not know the name of the Troll-God of mating, so he did not know whom to thank. He pushed on to step up onto the ninth and the last terrace.
“Thou canst not!’ Azash shrieked. Sparhawk did not reply as he marched grimly towards the idol with Bhelliom still in one fist and his menacing sword in the other.
Lightning flashed around him, but each bolt was absorbed by the growing sapphire aura with which Bhelliom protected him.
Otha had abandoned his fruitless duel with Sephrenia and crawled, sobbing in fright, towards the right side of the altar. Annias had collapsed on the left side of that same narrow onyx slab, and Arissa and Lycheas, clinging to each other, wailed.
Sparhawk reached the narrow altar. “Wish me luck,’ he whispered to the ChildGoddess.
“Of course, Father,’ she replied.
Azash shrank back as Bhelliom’s glow intensified, and the idol’s burning eyes bulged with terror. Sparhawk saw that an immortal suddenly faced with the possibility of His own death is peculiarly defenceless. The idea alone erased all other thought, and Azash could only react at the simplest, most childish level. He lashed out, blindly hurling incandescent green flame struck the equally brilliant blue flame of Bhelliom. The blue wavered, then solidified. The green shrank back, then pushed again at Sparhawk.
And there they locked, Bhelliom and Azash, each exerting irresistible force to protect its very existence.
Neither of them would – or could – relent. Sparhawk had the unpleasant conviction that he might very well stand in this one place for all eternity with the jewel half-extended as Azash and Bhelliom remained locked in their struggle.
It came from behind him, spinning and whirring through the air with a sound almost like bird-wings. It passed over his head and clanged against the idol’s stone chest, exploding forth a great shower of sparks. It was Bevier’s hookpointed lochaber axe. Berit, unthinking perhaps, had thrown the lochaber at the idol – a foolish gesture of puny defiance.
But it worked.
The idol flinched involuntarily from something which could not possibly hurt it, and its force, its fire, momentarily vanished. Sparhawk lunged forward with Bhelliom clutched in his left hand, thrusting it like a spear-point at the burn-scar low on the idol’s belly. His hand went numb in the violent shock of contact.
The sound was deafening. Sparhawk was sure that it shook the entire world.
He bent his head and locked his muscles, pushing Bhelliom harder and harder against the shiny scar of Azash’s emasculation. The God shrieked in agony. “YE
HAVE FAILED ME.” He howled, and writhing, tentacle-like arms whipped out from either side of the idol’s body to seize Otha – and Annias.
‘Oh, my God!’ the Primate of Cimmura shrieked, not to Azash, but to the God of his childhood.
“Save me. protect me.’
There was no finesse in the punishment inflicted upon the Emperor of Zemoch and the Primate of Cimmura.
Maddened by pain and fear and a hunger to lash out at those He considered responsible, Azash reacted like an infuriated child. Other arms lashed out to seize the shrieking pair, and then, with cruel slowness, the undulating arms began to turn in opposite directions in that motion used by a washerwoman to wring out a dripping rag. Blood and worse spurted out from between the God’s eel-like fingers as He inexorably wrung the lives of Otha and Annias from their writhing bodies.
Sickened, Sparhawk closed his eyes – but he could not close his ears. The shrieking grew worse , rising to strangled squeals at the very upper edge of hearing.
Then they fell silent, and there were two sodden thumps as Azash discarded what was left of His servants.
Arissa was retching violently over the unrecognizable remains of her lover and the father of her only child as the vast idol shuddered and cracked, raining chunks of carved rock as it disintegrated. Writhing arms solidified as they broke free and fell to smash into fragments on the floor. The grotesque face slid in pieces from the front of the head. A large piece of rock struck Sparhawk’s armoured shoulder, and the impact quite nearly jarred Bhelliom from his hands. With a great cracking noise, the idol broke at the waist, and the vast upper trunk toppled backwards to smash into a million pieces on the polished black floor. A stump only remained, a kind of crumbling stone pedestal upon which sat that crude mud idol which Otha had first seen almost two thousand years before.
‘ Thou canst not.” The voice was the squeal of a small animal, a rabbit maybe, or perhaps a rat. “I am a God.”
Thou art nothing., Thou art an insect., Thou art as , dirt.”
“Perhaps,’ Sparhawk said, actually feeling pity for the pathetic little mud figurine. He dropped his sword and clasped Bhelliom firmly in both hands. ‘Blue-Rose!’ he said sharply. “I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia! By the power of these rings I command Blue-Rose to return this image to the earth from which it came!’ He thrust both hands and the Sapphire Rose forward. “Thou hast hungered for Bhelliom, Azash,’ he said. ‘Have it then. Have it and all that it brings thee.’ Then the Bhelliom touched the misshapen little idol. “Blue-Rose will obey! NOW.”
He clenched himself as he said it, expecting instant obliteration.
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.