said – were regarded by Rankans as lacking force. Whereas the conqueror’s tongue
was alive with verbs that expressed intense feeling, absolute purpose, uttermost
determination.
Stulwig, fleetingly remembering those comparisons, had the thought: ‘To Vashanka
it will seem as if I’m begging for mercy, whereas all I want is understanding.’
Feeling hopeless, the man clung to his stave. It was all he had. So he held it
up between himself and the great fire-god. But each passing instant he was
recalling what Quag, the Hell Hound, had said – about Ils having failed his
people of Sanctuary.
Suddenly, it was hard to believe that the minor magic of a failed god, as
projected into a wooden stick – however tough the wood -could withstand even one
blow from the mighty Vashanka.
As he had that cringing thought, Stulwig grew aware that the god had extended
one hand. Instantly, the flame of the arm-hand grew brighter. Abruptly, it
leaped. And struck the stave.
Utter confusion of brightness.
And confusion in his dazzled eyes as to what was happening, or what had
happened.
Only one thing was clear: the attack of the god against the man had begun.
He was still alive; that was Stulwig’s first awareness. Alive with, now, a vague
memory of having seen the lightning strike the stave. And of hearing a base
voiced braying sound. But of what exactly had happened at the moment of the fire
interacting with the stave there was no after-image in his eyes.
Uncertain, still somehow clinging miraculously to the stave, Stulwig took
several steps backwards before the awful brightness let go of his vision