Now was the time to strike at Zarel, and by leading the way she would be the next Grand Master, presenting the Walker with fait accompli upon his return.

Or perhaps, even better, she thought, I can challenge him beyond the veil and gain the vengeance I deserve.

She thought of Garth, who so unknowingly had created this opportunity for her. He had done his service well. All the hatreds of all sides, which had been contained for so long, had finally boiled to the surface thanks to him. Let all the corruption boil out now, she thought with a cold glee.

But why would he go so willingly into the Walker’s grasp? she suddenly wondered. He could only have done so if there was a plan. It was obvious, she realized. He had from the beginning planned to challenge the Walker, somehow defeat him, and become one in his own right. If that was the case, he would be weak after the struggle and the chance of breaking through was even more possible now.

The opportunity was now and she stood up, calling for her fighters to prepare.

Tulan of Kestha and Varnel of Fentesk stood in the shadows, looking out anxiously across the Plaza.

“That old crone does have a point,” Tulan said eagerly. “He plans to finish us now. This balance of power game has gone on too long. Either we kill him or he kills us.”

“Perhaps we can win in either case,” Varnel said calmly. “She will attack. This is not a trick to lure us out with her holding back. Her passion for power has consumed her. And besides, she is right, you know. Our best fighters died in the arena these last three days. If ever there is a moment when he can defeat us all, it is now.”

“And yet,” Tulan said silkily.

“And yet, suppose they are equally balanced in the struggle? All we need do is let them wear each other down. Perhaps if we attacked, and at least demonstrated our intent, she would press onward. But we hold back and let them bleed themselves against each other. Then, when the moment is right, we slaughter all of them together.”

“And what of Jimak?”

“And what of him? We know he covets the gold that Zarel holds in his coffers. He will attack with a passion and bleed himself dry in the process. Let him.”

Varnel smiled.

“And as for what we might want,” Tulan sighed. “The women of Zarel will be yours, all of them in their multitude of colors, shapes, scents, and perverse practices.”

Varnel licked his lips eagerly.

“And when we are done we can also hunt down those of our fighters who betrayed us and went over to the mob,” Varnel said coldly.

Jimak of Ingkara sat alone in his counting room, gazing down at the mountain of gold spread before his throne. The strongboxes had been carted over to him but moments ago, in payment for his pledge to fight by Zarel’s side. He chuckled at the thought. Certainly he would fight, and when the other Houses were done and looted, then it would be Zarel’s turn as well.

Hammen peeked out from behind the broken shutter. The midnight bell tolled with its deep, melancholy tone. The Plaza was silent, illuminated with flickering fires that still shuddered from the battles with the mob that had raged throughout the afternoon and into the early evening.

He looked back at a deserter from Kestha, who had come over to the side of the mob with the information that the Houses were planning to assault the palace at midnight.

“Nothing.”

Even as he said the word a brilliant flash arced up into the sky. Flickering and hissing, it detonated over the Plaza, illuminating it with a harsh white light. Trumpets blared from the pyramid-shaped palace and from the five great doors an armed host came charging out, warriors at the fore with crossbows ready, followed by mobile catapults mounted on wagons, and finally the fighters.

They charged across the Plaza and from out of the gates of the Houses of the four colors fighters emerged as well. Hammen, chortling with glee, pulled the shutter wide open and leaned out to watch, joined by Naru, Norreen, and the lieutenants of his brotherhood, who had struggled to gain some semblance of fighting control over the mob.

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.