Samlor his first tangible proof of the power that slunk through the skittering
passages.
From the opening across the room came the sound of metal scraping stone,
scraping and jingling. Samlor backed against the wall, sucking his cheeks
hollow.
Into the chamber of living rock stepped the other suit of Hast-ra-kodi’s armour.
This one fitted snugly about a man whom it utterly covered, creating a figure
which had nothing human in it but its shape. The unknown metal glowed green, and
the sword the figure bore free in one gauntleted hand blazed like a green torch.
‘Do you come to worship Dyareela?’ the figure asked in a voice rusty with
disuse.
Samlor set his lamp carefully on the flooring and sidled a pace away from it. ‘I
worship Heqt,’ he said, fingering his medallion with his left hand. ‘And some
others, perhaps. But not Dyareela.’
The figure laughed as it took a step forwards. ‘I worshipped Heqt, too. I was
her priest – until I came down into the tunnels to purge them of the evil they
held.’ The tittering laughter ricocheted about the stone walls like the sound
caged weasels make. ‘Dyareela put a penance on me in return for my life, my
life, my life … I wear this armour. That will be your penance too, Cirdonian:
put on the other suit.’
‘Let me pass, priest,’ Samlor said. His hands were trembling. He clutched them
together on his bosom. His fighting knife was sheathed.
‘No priest,’ the figure rasped, advancing.
‘Man! Let me pass!’
‘No man, not man,’ said the thing, its blade rising and a flame that dimmed the