“Do it!” But even as he spoke there was a new eruption of fighting on the far side of the Plaza.
“Damn it, now what?” he snarled angrily.
A warrior came through the press of fighters who had witnessed the downfall of their captain.
“The mob, sire,” the warrior shouted. “They’re attacking again.”
Zarel turned and looked back at his fighters.
“Leave none of them alive this time. If this city is to be turned into a pyre, do it.”
The fighters stood silent, not moving.
“You have a choice,” Zarel hissed. “Either serve me now or die. You can all try to take me but with the power I have, I guarantee few of you will live to see the triumph. And those of you that do survive will be torn apart by the mob. Now go stop them.”
Several of the fighters turned away and wearily headed toward the sound of the fighting. The rest, watching them go, finally turned and followed.
Zarel stormed after them, gathering in the mana that his still-loyal warriors now brought him in the dozens of satchels taken from the fallen of both sides. And he felt a surge of energy from the mana as he gathered it in, so that even the burden of its weight bothered him not.
He drew upon the renewed strength and, with a howl of delight, he sent a blast of fire across the Plaza-fire which struck into the mob with such force that a hundred or more were bowled over by the flame, their incandescent forms twisting and writhing in agony.
The mob, which had been angrily advancing from out of the thoroughfare of the silk merchants, turned in panic and started to flee. From the other boulevards that led into the Plaza came yet more and Zarel, laughing with sardonic delight, called down torments upon them as well, slaying hundreds with a power that was near to that of a demigod. And he sang with a fierce joy even as he drained his power in the killing.
And all turned and fled before his dark visage.
“It’s lost, damn it, it’s lost!”
Hammen, staggered by the terrifying power of Zarel, could only lean against the side of a shattered building, watching with numbed comprehension the slaughter taking place in the Plaza. He knew the attack had been a forlorn hope and it was evident now that it was doomed. The mob, which had taken far too much of a beating in the arena in the last two days of rioting, was spent, fleeing in every direction.
But the counterattack did not stop. Zarel, drunk with a mad glee, staggered about the Plaza, burning everything in sight. His warriors, and now many of his fighters as well, had given themselves over to riot, and rushed about as maniacs, killing the wounded, burning anything that would stand, spreading out into the side streets destroying as they went.
“Madness, it’s all madness,” Hammen whispered. He felt hands on his shoulders turning him away. He looked up at Naru and then over at Norreen.
“The world is his now,” Hammen moaned. “At least before, at least before Garth came, there was a balance. Now it is gone. Damn, it’s all gone and we are in the hands of a madman.”
“Old man must leave,” Naru said, and his voice was actually filled with a sad melancholy. “Zarel kill you, kill Orange woman and other woman if they found. Leave.”
Shaking with fatigue, Hammen allowed himself to be turned away from the square.
A blast of fire slammed into the building he had just been leaning against. Naru, howling with pain, staggered out into the middle of the street, his great beard and mane of hair on fire. He swirled about, trying to put out the flames. Hoarse laughter came from out of the shadows and, stunned, Hammen looked up to see Zarel stalking toward them, moving with an unearthly speed. He struck Naru another blow and the giant crumpled.
Hammen turned to Norreen.
“Flee! At least find Varena and get her out.”
“We’re all finished,” Norreen snarled. “Let me die as I choose.” And, unsheathing her sword, she leaped forward to stand over Naru, who rolled about weakly on the ground.
Hammen, sighing, stepped forward to join her.
Zarel, now seeing whom he was facing, slowed, a grin of cold delight twisting his features.
With raised hands he slowly walked toward them, moving in for the kill.
Long he fell, so that he was not sure if he had slipped into eternity or if perhaps time itself had ceased to exist. He could sense as well the pursuit, though it was distant. He had slammed the door shut into the world from which he had come, but he knew that somehow he had not bolted it with sufficient mana to keep it thus barred forever.
Gradually his strength returned and he found a sudden joy, a realization that he had indeed crossed through the final barrier, that he was now a Planes Walker. The universe, with all its multiplicity of realities, awaited him if he dared. And yet he sensed as well the barriers that hemmed him in on all sides, the realms guarded so jealously by the others, and there were indeed others. He could sense them, some locked within their realms like demented misers, who kept the doors into their miserable realms locked out of fear that someone would want the squalor they had created. Others fought with a mad-insane-glee, struggling simply for the joy of it. There were triumphs and defeats, exaltation and despair. And all too rarely there was tranquility behind walls erected so high and so strong that no one could pierce into the gardens thus created. And he sensed as well the truth of how they had achieved that.
He felt temptation take hold of him, offering him all the powers of a demigod, for indeed in this brief moment that is truly what he had become, a Walker who could stride across the universe and do battle with forces dark or light as he might choose.
He hovered thus, torn between desires, and then he turned, sensing something else. And he knew. He looked back whence he had come and sensed that the barrier would fail and that his foe might again emerge. But with all the universe to race through it mattered not to him. And yet he sensed something else as well. He felt a lingering sadness, like a child called from play in a dangerous field to return to a task he wished would somehow go away, yet it would not.
He knew what he still must do, and there was an urgency to it that drew him back and downward.
Hammen did not even bother to raise his hands, knowing that it was useless even to try. Norreen would die as a Benalian, fighting with sword in hand, and thus bring honor to her caste. But as for himself, he realized that he was tired, that he was old, and, most of all, he was simply weary of the inequity of this world and wished to be quit of it forever.
“Do it, you bastard, and be done,” Hammen snarled.
And even as Zarel raised his hand to strike, laughing with demonic fury, a shadow seemed to form. Zarel hesitated, looking up.
The shadow swirled in tight, spiraling downward, and Zarel stepped back.
It took form and Hammen, stunned, sat down heavily beside Naru.
Garth One-eye stood in the middle of the street.
Zarel stood silent, mouth opened in astonishment.
“I think we have something to settle,” Garth said, his face set with a look of cold disdain.
Zarel said nothing, looking around nervously.
“Do you remember the night my father died?” Garth said sharply. “Do you remember me standing before you, a child half-blinded by your own hand? You were going to use me as a trade, yet both of us knew that you would not have honored it. You would have killed him and then me in turn. Do you remember my tearing away from your grasp and running back into the flames? You laughed when you heard my childish screams.”
Garth stood silent for a moment.
“Do you remember!” His voice was a lash.
Zarel raised his hand and a fire elemental seemed to leap out from him, the flame washing over Garth. He disappeared in the maelstrom of heat and Zarel laughed coldly, stepping forward.