The Hidden City

since his return from exile in Render. He ripped Cyrgon’s thigh with the classic ‘Pas-four’. He slashed that perfect face with Martel’s innovative ‘parry-pas-nine’. He cut away the upper half of Cyrgon’s oversized round shield with Vanion’s ‘Third feint-and-slash’.
    Of all the Church Knights, the Pandions were the most skilled swordsmen, and of all the Pandions, Sparhawk stood supreme. Bhelliom had called him the equal of a God, but Sparhawk fought as a man superbly trained, a little out of condition and really too old for this kind of thing—but with an absolute confidence that if the fate of the world rested in his hands, he was good for at least one more fight. His sword blurred in the light of the new-risen sun, flickering, weaving, darting. Baffled, the ancient Cyrgon tried to respond. The opportunity presented itself, and Sparhawk felt the perfect symmetry of it. Cyrgon, untaught, had provided the black- armored Pandion precisely the same opening Martel had given him in the temple of Azash. Martel had fully understood the significance of the series of strokes. Cyrgon, however, did not. And so it was that the thrust which pierced him through came as an absolute surprise. The God stiffened and his sword fell from his nerveless fingers as he lurched back from that fatal thrust. Sparhawk recovered from the thrust and swept his bloody sword up in front of his face in salute.
    ‘An innovation, Cyrgon,’ he said in a detached sort of voice. ‘You’re really very good, you know, but you ought to try to stay abreast of things.’
    Cyrgon sagged to the flagstoned court, his immortal life spilling out through the gash in his breastplate. ‘And wilt thou take the world now, Anakha?’ he gasped. Sparhawk dropped to his haunches beside the stricken God.
    ‘No, Cyrgon,’ he replied wearily. ‘I don’t want the world, just a quiet little corner of it.’
    ‘Then why camest thou against me?’
    ‘I didn’t want you to have it either, because if you had, my little part wouldn’t have been safe.’ He reached out and took the pallid hand. ‘You fought well, Cyrgon. I have respect for you. Hail and farewell.’
    Cyrgon’s voice was only a whisper as he replied, ‘Hail and farewell, Anakha.’ There was a great despairing howl of frustration and rage. Sparhawk looked up and saw a man-shape of sooty red streaking upward into the dawn sky as Klael resumed his endless journey toward and beyond the farthest star.

Chapter 33
    There was fighting somewhere—the ring of steel on steel and shouts and cries—but Ehlana scarcely heard the sounds as she stared down at the square lying between the ruins of the temple and the only slightly less ruined palace. The sun was above the eastern horizon now, and it filled the ancient streets of Cyrga with harsh, unforgiving light. The Queen of Elenia was exhausted, but the ordeal of her captivity was over, and she yearned only to lose herself in her husband’s embrace. She did not understand much of what she had just witnessed, but that was not really important. She stood at the battlements holding the Child Goddess in her arms, gazing down at her invincible champion far below.
    ‘Do you think it might be safe for us to go down?’ she asked the small divinity in her arms.
    ‘The stairway’s blocked, Ehlana,’ Mirtai reminded her.
    ‘I can take care of that,’ Flute said.
    ‘Maybe we’d better stay up here,’ Bevier said with a worried frown. ‘Cyrgon and Klael are gone, but Zalasta’s still out there somewhere. He might try to seize the Queen again so that he can use her to bargain his way out of here.’
    ‘He’d better not,’ the Child Goddess said ominously. ‘Ehlana’s right. Let’s go down.’
    They went back inside, reached the head of the stairs and peered down through billowing clouds of dust.
    ‘What did you do?’ Talen asked Flute. ‘Where did all the rocks go?’
    She shrugged. ‘I turned them into sand,’ she replied.
    The stairway wound downward along the inside of the tower walls. Kalten and Bevier, swords in hand, led the way, prudently investigating each level as they reached it. The top three or four levels were empty, but as they began the descent to a level about midway down the inside of the tower, Xanetia hissed sharply, ‘Someone approaches!’
    ‘Where?’ Kalten demanded. ‘How many?’
    ‘Two, and they do mount the stairs toward us.’
    ‘I’ll deal with them,’ he muttered, gripping his sword-hilt even