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.

Tulan staggered back and forth on the battlement, while in the Plaza below his agony drew harsh and mocking laughter from Zarel’s fighters. With a mad curse, Tulan tore off his satchel and threw it up into the air. He raised his hands and pointed. The satchel disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Uriah, screaming with rage, pointed his hands at Tulan even as Tulan staggered to the edge of the battlement and, with a final curse, threw himself off the wall. His body, exploding in flames from Uriah’s final spell, smashed on the hard pavement and split asunder.

Sickened, Hammen turned away.

“Of the four, he was perhaps the least harmful,” the old man said.

A stream of warriors now poured into the House of Kestha to finish the slaughter. Out in the Plaza Uriah stormed back and forth, shouting with rage and then finally directing his fighters to turn and head back toward the fighting against Bolk.

“The Houses are dead,” Norreen said, standing by Hammen’s side and watching the slaughter. “Zarel will win and then there will be nothing to balance and offset him. If we have any chance left, it is now.”

“We? I thought you were planning to get out of this madhouse.”

“I kind of got involved, if only for the memory of Garth.”

Hammen turned and looked back at his vagabond assortment of lieutenants.

“Juka, rally the mob on the street of sword makers, Valmar, the street of tanners, Pultark, the street of silk merchants, and Seduna, the street of butchers. It’s impossible to try and coordinate it properly. Just get them to charge. Perhaps we can swarm them under while they’re still out in the Plaza. If that bastard brings down the others and regains his palace, it is finished. Now move!”

The four men nodded grimly and left the room.

He looked back at Naru, who sat hunched up on the floor. “Don’t worry, you oversize cretin, we’ll still get one more fight in.”

Naru grinned with pleasure.

“Kirlen!”

Zarel, drunk with slaughter and triumph, moved toward his most hated of rivals. The old woman watched him come, silhouetted by the conflagrations consuming the other Houses, and she knew her dream of overthrowing his power was finished. From atop the flame-scorched battlements of Ingkara she saw Jimak looking down and could sense his glee at her downfall.

She turned to face Zarel, barely noticing that most of her fighters had turned and fled, stripping off their uniforms as they ran. She stood upon her throne and, in her moment of defeat, knew all that was now lost. Her agony pierced to her very soul.

Turning, she fled back into her House. As she hobbled through the doors she heard the harsh laughter of her foes. The door slammed shut behind her and she looked back at the two trembling guards.