The Hidden City

gaped wider. Straight it went to vanish in the flaming maw.
    The tower trembled as a shudder ran through the glossy blackness of the enormity clinging to its side, and Sparhawk struggled to keep his balance on his precarious perch. Klael’s wings stiffened to their fullest extent, quivering with awful tension. The great beast swelled, growing even more enormous.
    Then he contracted, shriveling.
    And then he exploded.
    The detonation shook the very earth, and Sparhawk was hurled back from the battlement to fall heavily on the parapet. He rolled quickly, came to his feet, and rushed back to the battlements.
    Two beings of light, one a glowing blue, the other sooty red, grappled with each other on insubstantial air not ten feet away. Their struggle was elemental, a savage contesting of will and strength. They were featureless beings, and their shapes were only vaguely human. Heaving back and forth, they clung to each other like wrestlers in some rude village square, each bending all his will and force to subdue his perfectly-matched opponent. Sparhawk and his friends lined the battlements, frozen, awed, able only to watch that primeval struggle.
    And then the two broke free of each other and stood, backs bowed and arms half-extended, each facing his immortal brother In some inconceivable communion.
    ‘It falls to thee, Anakha,’ Bhelliom’s voice in Sparhawk’s mind was calm. ‘Should Klael and I continue, this world shall surely be destroyed, as hath oft-time come to pass before. Thou art of this world and must therefore be my champion. Constraints are upon thee which do not limit me. Klael’s champion is also of this world and is similarly constrained.’
    ‘It shall be even as thou has said, my father,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I will serve as thy champion if it must needs be. With whom must I contend?’
    A great roar of rage came from far below, and a living flame surged up out of the shattered ruins of the chalk-white temple.
    ‘There is thine opponent, my son,’ the azure spirit replied. ‘Klael hath called him forth to do battle with thee.’
    ‘Cyrgon?’
    ‘E’en so.’
    ‘But he is a God!’
    ‘And art thou not?’
    Sparhawk’s mind reeled.
    ‘Look within thyself, Anakha. Thou art my son, and I made thee to be the receptacle of my will. I now release that will to thee that thou mayest be the champion of this world. Feel its power infuse thee.’
    It was like the opening of a door that had always been closed. Sparhawk felt his mind and will expanding infinitely as the barrier went down, and with that expanding there came an unutterable calm.
    ‘Now art thou truly Anakha, my son!’ Bhelliom exulted. ‘Thy will is now my will. All things are now possible for thee. It was thy will which vanquished Azash. I was but thine instrument. In this occasion, however, shalt thou be mine. Bend thine invincible will to the task. Seize it in thine hands and mold it. Forge weapons with thy mind and confront Cyrgon. If thine heart be true, he cannot prevail against thee. Now go. Cyrgon awaits thee.’
    Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and looked down at the rubble-littered square far below. The flame which had emerged from the ruins had coalesced into a blazing man-shape standing before the wreck of the temple.
    ‘Come, Anakha!’ it roared. ‘Our meeting hath been foretold since before time began.This is thy destiny! Thou art honored above all others to fall by my hand.’
    Sparhawk deliberately pushed aside the windy pomposity of archaic expression. ‘Don’t start celebrating until after you’ve won, Cyrgon!’ he shouted his reply. ‘Don’t go away! I’ll be right down!’ Then he set one hand atop the battlement and lightly vaulted over it. He stopped, hanging in mid-air. ‘Let go, Aphrael,’ he said.
    ‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed.
    ‘Just do as you’re told. Let me go.’
    ‘You’ll fall.’
    ‘No, actually I won’t. I can handle this. Don’t interfere. Cyrgon’s waiting for me, so please let go.’
    It was not actually flying, although Sparhawk was certain that he could fly if he needed to. He felt a peculiar lightness as he drifted down toward the ruins of the House of Cyrgon. It was not that he had no weight, it was more that his weight had no meaning. His will was somehow stronger than gravity. Sword in hand, he settled down and down like a drifting feather. Cyrgon waited below. The burning figure of the ancient God drew his fire about him, congealing the incandescent flame