Within seconds the Plaza was a churning sea of combat as nearly every spell known in the Western Lands was brought into play by the over four hundred fighters struggling in the Plaza. The concentration of mana was so intense that the Plaza pulsed with an unearthly light that glowed and flickered like heat lightning on a summer horizon.
The fighters of Bolk charged with violent attacks, reaching the very gates of the palace, while the fighters of Fentesk and Kestha held fast in the middle of the Plaza.
Naru, watching the charge of his old comrades, roared with delight and pounded the side of the windowsill so that the boards cracked.
“Purple is changing sides,” Hammen gasped, and he pointed to the far side of the Plaza, where the ranks of Ingkara turned on the flank of Fentesk, caving it in.
Brown fighters, in turn, enraged by the betrayal, broke from their attack on the palace and charged toward the flank of Purple. For a brief instant Hammen saw Kirlen sitting atop her sedan chair, white hair fluttering in the wind, pointing toward the House of Ingkara. Liquid fire drenched the walls of the House and sheets of flame raced up its side.
Hammen, shaking his head, turned away.
“Madness,” he sighed. “Nothing but madness.”
Zarel, roaring with glee, turned his attention away from the onslaught of Bolk’s fighters, who were now diverted by an even deeper hatred fueled by Ingkara’s betrayal. Kirlen, raging and screaming, tried to turn their attention back on Zarel’s palace, even though it was she who had lost her temper and focused her strength elsewhere just when the strength of her attack was at its peak.
It was evident that Kestha and Fentesk were holding back and would crush whatever was left.
Zarel turned to his reserves of fighters and warriors and directed them to attack Fentesk and Kestha while the fighters of Ingkara and Bolk struggled. The warriors surged forward with raised crossbows. Flashes of fire rained down on them and the fighters behind them threw up curtains of protection. A fissure raced across the Plaza, opening with a shattering roar. The buildings around the Plaza swayed. Prepared for such a defense, more warriors raced forward and threw light wooden bridges across the chasm. As the attackers raced across, dark creatures surged up out of the rift, pulling warriors down, the creatures at times fighting with each other for tidbits that kicked and screamed as they were torn asunder.
Zarel concentrated his fury against Varnel, sending down waves of attack from above-dragons and other winged beasts, bolts of lightning, sheets of fire, and rains of stones. Fentesk’s fighters conjured spells of fire in response.
Zarel leaped the fissure, striking down a demon that rose up to tear him apart. His fury caused the fighters arrayed against him to blanch, turn, and run. The warriors who had managed to cross the fissure saw their chance and fired at the backs of the fighters, sending them sprawling to the ground. Many of the fallen tried to generate spells of healing to save themselves but the warriors of Zarel fell upon them with glee. Drawing swords, they cut off the heads of the wounded, holding them aloft in triumph before tossing them into the fissure.
Specially assigned warriors raced from body to body, cutting off the satchels of the fallen of all sides so that their spells and mana would become the personal trophies of Zarel. And the harvest was good as the fighters of Kestha and Fentesk fell back before the onslaught.
A personal duel arose between Zarel and Varnel before the gates of the House of Fentesk. Zarel, his powers fat with the booty he was taking in, soon drove Varnel to his knees. The House Master, looking up at Zarel with stunned disbelief, cried out in anguish as his opponent cast the final spell, causing Varnel to age a hundred years in the span of a dozen seconds. The man who had placed so much store in sensual pleasure wept bitterly as he slowly curled up into a whimpering ball of yellowed skin and sickly white hair.
The doors of the House of Fentesk were cast down and, even as the warriors and fighters of Zarel charged in, those who were hiding inside attempted to flee outward. Zarel pointed at one of them and the young woman froze and then, as if walking in her sleep, came over to stand before Zarel.
Smiling cruelly, Zarel reached out and grabbed hold of her, stirring her from her sleep. He forced her to look down at Varnel.
“There is your Master now,” Zarel laughed. “Would you care to pleasure him?”
Varnel, with trembling hands, reached up.
“Malina.” His voice was a hissing croak, his breath sick with corruption.
The girl recoiled and then broke into a contemptuous laugh, reaching over to put her arm around Zarel.
“Curse your fates and die,” Zarel laughed, and he pointed down at Varnel, creating the same spell yet again.
Varnel, moaning in anguish, continued to age. As he did so his flesh fell away into dust until all that was left was a skeletal form wrapped in silken robes and a skull whose mouth was open in a final cry of pain.
Zarel pushed the girl aside and turned to go back into the fight.
Across the Plaza a thunderclap roar erupted and Zarel turned to look back. The House of Ingkara was bathed in flames; atop its battlements fighters writhed back and forth, dashing madly about, their cloaks on fire. Several hurled themselves off the high wall and fluttered down, trailing smoke and fire.
“Uriah!”
Zarel turned, looking, and saw his captain of fighters come through the press.
“Continue to push Tulan. If you take his House, his personal satchel is yours for the keeping. I’m going back to finish Kirlen.”
The dwarf grinned sardonically and, turning, gave a fierce rallying cry and thrust himself into the fray.
Zarel watched him go, grinning coldly. He had promised him the satchel, but he had said nothing about how long he could keep it.
Motioning for his bodyguard to follow, Zarel raced back across the Plaza and was horrified to discover that the north end of his palace was bathed in flames from Bolk’s renewed attack.
Zarel saw his foe and threw back his head, howling with rage.
“Kirlen!”
Hammen stood transfixed by the madness playing out on the Plaza below.
“We should attack him now.”
He looked over his shoulder. Varena stood behind him, her features pale and drawn.
“I gave you a sleep potion, woman, now take advantage of it. You’re still weak.”
“Give me back my satchel.” She extended her hand.
“For what? So you can go out there and commit suicide after all I’ve done to save you? You’re as weak as a newborn kitten. Now go lie down.”
“Zarel has gone insane with bloodlust. He won’t stop with the four Houses; next he’ll turn his attention back on the mob. You have tens of thousands willing to fight. Throw them in before he wins.”
“Young lady, while you were conveniently asleep we tried just that. The streets from the arena all the way back to the Plaza are choked with the dead. We fell back because we could not stand with clubs and knives against spells and crossbows. Let it play out. Perhaps they will weaken each other to the point that we can sweep him up at the end.”
Varena sighed and reached over to the windowsill to brace herself. As she looked out she saw the front of her House collapsing in ruin, engulfed in flame.
She turned away with tears clouding her eyes.
“You should have let my spirit go in peace rather than bring me back to this ending.”
She staggered away from the window and collapsed upon the floor.
Again Hammen looked out the window. The House of Kestha was now under siege, the building under attack from a score of stone giants and hill giants, who hammered at the wall with their massive clubs, while a juggernaut rolled slowly forward with relentless energy, crashing through the gates of the House. Warriors struggled in the confusion and fighters traded blows at short range. From atop the battlement Tulan appeared, and from his hands came a rain of fire, wind, storms, and lightning, which smashed most of the giants. And then a dark force appeared, rushing straight at the Master of Kestha. Screaming in rage, Tulan struggled as the darkness closed in, sapping the strength from his body so that his corpulent form started to shrivel, leaving his silken robes hanging as if draped over a skeleton.