Laughing as it stood, the creature pushed Nakor aside, as if he was too trivial a being to warrant violence. “I am the One Who Was Called!”
“Who are you?” Nakor repeated, sitting on the floor.
Leaning over, his beautiful face mere inches from Nakor, he said, “I am Zaltais of the Eternal Despair.”
Nakor shouted, “Tomas! You must vanquish him.”
With a gesture of his finger, Zaltais seemed to lift Nakor up and propel him in an arc across the hall, letting the old Isalani gambler slam into the wall. Nakor slumped to the floor.
Tomas lay below the flashing mystic blade that Miranda had cast, as it rebounded from wall to wall, carving through those warriors still standing.
Pug held his hand palm-out toward Zaltais, and an explosion of energy slammed into the winged being, propelling him backward into the throne one more time.
The mystic weapon that Miranda had cast faded suddenly, and Tomas leaped to his feet. The dozen remaining warriors surrounded him, and he struck out with his sword. Possessed by senses beyond human, he moved to avoid every blow. His golden sword, not wielded in battle since the Riftwar, struck out, and each blow took a limb or a head.
Miranda ran past the struggle in the middle of the room to see how Nakor fared. The ancient gambler lay stunned. Miranda couldn’t tell how serious his injuries were.
Pug advanced on Zaltais, who sat with eyes blinking a moment, as if stunned, then his eyes focused and he grinned. Pug felt only hopelessness on seeing that smile.
‘ i underestimated you, Pug of Crydee, Milamber of the Assembly! You are no Macros the Black, but you are a power! Too bad you’re not worthy of your mentor’s legacy!”
Pug faltered a moment, suddenly unsure of his next act. That hesitation cost him as Zaltais flicked his hand and sent coils of black energy snaking toward Pug. They struck, and each time they hit, Pug felt pain unlike any he had known; beyond the pain of flesh ripped by cruel fangs, each bite made him doubt his own ability. He hesitated, then fell back.
“Pug!” shouted Miranda, seeing her husband retreating.
Tomas swung his golden sword and killed the last of the warriors as Nakor started to rouse.
As Pug fell back, Tomas leaped past him, and the golden sword swung down. Zaltais raised his arm, taking Tomas’s blade on a golden bracer upon his wrist. The blade showered golden sparks and Tomas overbalanced, leaving himself open to a blow from the winged creature. Zaltais leveled a backhand strike with his right fist, slamming into Tomas’s face, and the warrior in white-and-gold staggered from the blow.
In thirty years Tomas had never faced a creature of this power. Not since facing the combined mind of the Valheru had Tomas known such doubt. Even the demon Jakan seemed a trivial test compared to this creature.
Tomas fell to the floor and tasted blood on his lips. “What are you?”
“I?” said Zaltais. “I am an Angel of the Seventh Circle! I am an agent of the Gods!”
Nakor stood up and said, “Get back! He is not what he seems! He is a creature of lies and misdirection!” Nakor shook off Miranda’s hand as she tried to steady him. The old man hurried over to the bloody bodies that littered the floor, and said, “These are dead because this thing convinced them their only hope was to do as he bid and he treated them thusly. He will deceive and mislead, and raise doubts that will strike to the root of your being. If you listen to him, he will eventually convince you to serve him.”
Tomas rose up, the blood from his lip dripping onto his breastplate, where it ran off, without stain. “I will never serve this creature,” he said.
“First he’ll make you doubt your ability. Then he will make you doubt your purpose. Then he’ll make you doubt your place in the universe. Then he’ll convince you where that place is!”
The self-proclaimed Angel from Hell said, “You talk too much, old man!” He withdrew the black coils that had struck Pug and pointed his hand at Nakor. A blinding flash of white-hot energy flared, and Nakor leaped aside as it shot across the hall. It shot out the doorway as Miranda also leaped aside.
Tomas jumped to his feet, drawing back his sword, and struck down at the crown of the creature’s head. Zaltais pulled away, so the tip of the blade struck him in the face. He reeled back, screaming in rage and pain. A red gash cut him from crown to chin. As if the muscles below his skin were pushing outward, the crack down his face widened, then split, runnning down his throat to his chest and stomach, and he shrieked, an inhuman sound.
It was a keening sound, and it made Pug’s teeth ache as if they were being ground together. Pug saw the red gash splitting Zaltais from crown to groin. Like a pea pod being cracked open, Zaltais’s skin and wings fell away.
The thing that emerged from within that shell looked like a giant praying mantis, with a black chitinous exterior, and large diaphanous wings.