Geran’s heart, but the swordmage spun his blade in a half circle and parried the priest’s deadly strike directly back at him. Valdarsel’s eyes widened in disbelief a split second before his own black fire melted his holy symbol and burned deep through robes, mail, and flesh beneath. With a choking cry, he staggered back and fell, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. The spectral chains pinning Geran where he stood suddenly wavered as the priest’s concentration faltered and failed. He dragged a foot forward through the vanishing chains, then the other, and finally strode free to stand over the fallen priest.
Valdarsel glared up at him, blood and smoke escaping from his mouth. Geran fixed his eyes on the cleric’s. Another fiery blast rocked the hallway outside. “I should let you die slowly and savor every moment of it,” he said, “but I can’t spare the time. This is for my uncle Grigor Hulmaster, you bloody-handed bastard.” Then he finished the Cyricist with a single fierce blow.
He stood and stared down at Valdarsel’s corpse for a moment, vaguely surprised at the lack of satisfaction he felt in what he’d done. As much as the Cyricist had deserved to die, the fact remained that Geran’s enemies still held his homeland in a grip of iron. He couldn’t believe that Valdarsel would have struck against Harmach Grigor without the knowledge and approval of Maroth Marstel or Rhovann Disarnnyl. Is that it? he wondered. Do I have to slay them as well to set matters right in my mind? Or is it simply that there is so much more to be done, and this is only the start of it all?
A great crash of masonry shook him out of his reflections. Sarth was still battling outside, and likely needed his help. Besides, nothing more would be put right if he didn’t take care with his life and freedom so that he could strike again. He turned on his heel and darted back to the door. With his sword in his hand, he drew back the bolt and hurried out into the hallway.
Roaring flames and thick smoke greeted him. Sarth’s spells or the battle prayers of the Cyricists trying to stop him had set the Temple of the Wronged Prince afire. The building looked like it was already well beyond saving, and was likely to come down around their ears at any moment. “Sarth!” Geran called. “It’s time to leave!”
There was no reponse at first, and Geran feared that Sarth had left already—or fallen in battle against the Cyricists. But then the tiefling sorcerer staggered through the smoke, coughing through the handkerchief he was using to cover his mouth. Blood streamed from a nasty cut above his knee, and his fine robes were peppered with blackened scorch marks as if he’d been caught under a shower of sparks. But Sarth’s eyes glowed with the hellish wrath he was capable of unleashing when angered or hurt, and Geran could see a half-dozen Cyricists lying crumpled on the floor behind him.
“Is it done?” Sarth asked through his handkerchief.
“Valdarsel’s dead,” Geran replied. “Come, we’d better get away from here.” He started down the hall leading to the back door, only to realize that a great collapse of the roof beams had made it impassable.
“Not that way, I fear!” Sarth shook his head and caught his arm, pulling him out toward the main shrine. “We must leave by the front door.”
Geran grimaced, but assented with a nod. Together they hurried out through the antechamber into the smoke-filled shrine beyond. Here stood a large statue, showing the god Cyric seated on his great throne with a sword lying bare across his lap. Bas-reliefs along the walls showed scenes of Cyric’s mortal life, telling the story of his fated birth and the trials through which he ascended to divinity. Geran hardly spared them a glance as the two hurried out through the gates into the cool, snowy streets outside, where a large knot of onlookers—mostly foreigners and Cinderfists, since the temple was not far from the Tailings and they made up most of Valdarsel’s followers anyway—had gathered to watch the place burn. Behind them a half dozen of the helmed constructs he’d seen earlier stood mutely watching the crowd, the reflection of the flames shimmering across their blank visors.
“There they are!” shouted a singed-looking acolyte in black robes. He stood, pointing an accusing finger at Geran and Sarth. “There stand the defilers! Seize them!”