“Hold it as long as you can,” she screamed and continued along the darkened corridor, not even noticing the two young fighters as they turned and fled down another hallway in a desperate bid to escape the final destruction.

She reached her room and stopped.

Her books, her precious books, manuscripts, all the arcane knowledge in her search surrounded her.

She heard the battering on the door outside, the bursting of the hinges, and the harsh taunting cries of her foes.

She extended her hands, waving them in tight circles, pulling them in close around her withered body.

Zarel stood before the House of Bolk, watching, as the building started to cave in upon itself. A fighter emerged from the door, raced up to Zarel’s side, and lowered his head.

“Well?”

“She’s gone. The room was covered in ice.”

“What!”

Zarel pushed his way through the door and raced along the corridor. He could feel the building drawing in upon itself, collapsing into ruin. He reached the end of the corridor and turned into her private quarters.

He could almost sense the ripple of laughter, the final taunt from the flicker of light in the center of the room. She had somehow fled. She was still trapped in this plane but she had escaped. A few bits of paper still swirled around the room and then fluttered into the light and disappeared.

The room was dark, and as cold as the grave.

Part of the ceiling overhead collapsed and Zarel leaped back with a wild curse. Turning, he fled back down the corridor and out into the Plaza. Behind him the walls of the House of Bolk crashed inward into rubble and ruin.

A mad rage consumed him. She had escaped. But she had to be somewhere within this plane and thus could be found again. With enough mana he should be able to conjure the spells that would find her before it was too late.

All that was left now was Jimak of Ingkara and as he turned to face the House he saw Jimak emerge. The old man walked slowly, looking around nervously at the carnage that covered the square.

The Plaza was aglow with a ghastly light, not only from the tremendous concentration of mana but also from the pyres of the three other Houses. Fighting still raged as the last survivors were tracked down, cornered, and destroyed.

“So you got what you wanted?”

Zarel looked over at Jimak, a sneer of contempt lighting his features.

“You betrayed your own for a handful of gold.”

“I figured you would win.”

Zarel said nothing, relishing the moment.

“We should have united against you the moment you declared that the fights were to the death. But we were all so intent on One-eye. We all wanted him and yet all hated him since we other three could not control him. If our best had not been slain in the arena, we could have held against you. That we should have seen more clearly.”

The old man started to sway back and forth and Zarel suddenly realized that his satchel was open and was filled not with spells, amulets, and mana but rather with gold.

Jimak smiled.

“I cast my mana to the four winds. You shall not have it; your victory is hollow. I’d like to think that Kirlen, with all her hatred of you, has somehow escaped as well.”

The old man fell over, gasping.

He looked up at Zarel.

“I thought the poison would be painless. I was wrong. But it will be over shortly. I’ll see you in hell.”

Zarel looked down at Jimak as he rolled over, his breath coming in labored, rattling gasps.

Screaming with rage, he kicked Jimak in the side and then turned away.

“Destroy Ingkara’s House,” he shouted. “Leave not one block upon another. And the same for the other Houses. Now gather before me the mana that has been taken from the fallen. Any who hold back I will kill with my own hands.”

Uriah, who had been standing and watching the exchange between Zarel and Jimak, stepped forward angrily.

“You promised a House to me and the power that was in Tulan’s satchel. He destroyed them before dying. I claim what is taken from the other Kestha fighters as mine.”

Zarel turned and, with a single blow, knocked Uriah over, sending the dwarf sprawling to the ground. Uriah struggled to regain his footing and Zarel knocked him down once again with a psionic blow that slammed the dwarf into unconsciousness.

Turning, Zarel glared at the other fighters.

“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.