He straightened his arms, levelling his sword at the image etched in green fire before him. He steeled himself and deliberately stepped forward to bring his sword-point into contact with the burning enchantment.

The results were satisfyingly spectacular. The touch of the sword-point exploded the burning image, showering Sparhawk with a waterfall of multi-coloured sparks, and the detonation probably shattered every window for miles in any direction. Sparhawk and all of his friends were hurled to the ground, and the armoured corpses standing guard before the palace were felled like new-mown wheat. Sparhawk shook his head to clear away the ringing in his ears and struggled to get back on his feet again as he stared at the portal. One of the vast doors had been split down the middle, and the other hung precariously from a single hinge. The apparition was gone, and in its place hung a few tatters of wispy smoke. From deep inside the palace there came a prolonged, bat-like screech of agony.

‘Is everybody all right?’ Sparhawk shouted, looking at his friends.

They were struggling to their feet, their eyes slightly unfocused.

‘Noisy,’ was all Ulath said.

‘Who’s making all that noise inside?’ Kalten asked.

‘Otha, I’d imagine,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Having one of your spells shattered gives you quite a turn.’ He retrieved his gauntlets and the steel-mesh pouch.

‘Talen!’ Kurik shouted. ‘No!’

But the boy had already walked directly into the open doorway. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here, father,’ he reported, walking further inside and then back out again. ‘Since I didn’t vanish in a puff of smoke, I think we can say that it’s safe.’

Kurik started to move towards the boy, his hands outstretched hungrily. Then he thought better of it and stopped, muttering curses.

‘Let’s go inside,’ Sephrenia said. ‘I’m sure every patrol in the city heard that blast. We can hope that they thought it was only thunder, but some of them are bound to come to investigate.’

Sparhawk picked up the pouch and tucked it back under his belt. ‘We’ll want to get out of sight once we’re inside. Which way should we go?’

‘Bear to the left once we’re through the doorway. The passages on that side lead to the kitchens and the storerooms.’

‘All right then. Let’s go.’

That alien smell Sparhawk had noticed when they had first entered the city was stronger here in the dark corridors of the palace. The knights moved cautiously, listening to the echoes of the shouts of the elite guards. The palace was in turmoil, and even in a place as vast as this there were bound to be encounters. In most cases, Sparhawk and his friends evaded these by simply stepping into the dark chambers which lined the corridors. Sometimes, however, that was not possible, but the Knights of the Church were far more skilled at close combat than the Zemochs, and what noise the encounters produced was lost in the shouting that echoed through the corridors. They pressed on, their weapons at the ready.

It was nearly an hour later when they entered a large pastry kitchen where the banked fires provided a certain amount of light. They stopped there and closed and barred the doors.

‘I’m all turned around,’ Kalten confessed, stealing a small cake. ‘Which way do we go?’

‘Through that door, I think,’ Sephrenia replied. ‘The kitchens all open into a corridor that leads to the throne-room.’

‘Otha eats in his throne-room?’ Bevier asked in some surprise.

‘Otha doesn’t move around very much,’ she answered. ‘He can’t walk any more.’

‘What happened to him to cripple him?’

‘His appetite. Otha eats almost constantly, and he’s never been fond of exercise. His legs are too weak to carry him any more.’

‘How many doors into the throne-room?’ Ulath asked her.

She thought a moment, remembering. ‘Four, I think. The one from the kitchens here; another coming in from the main palace; and the one leading to Otha’s private quarters.’

‘And the last?’

‘The last entrance doesn’t have a door. It’s the opening that leads into the maze.’

‘Our first move should be to block those then. We’ll want some privacy when we talk with Otha.’

‘And anybody else who happens to be there,’ Kalten added. ‘I wonder if Martel’s managed to get here yet.’ He took another cake.

‘There’s one way to find out,’ Tynian said.

‘In a moment,’ Sparhawk said. ‘What’s this maze you mentioned, Sephrenia?’

‘It’s the route to the temple. There was a time when people were fascinated by labyrinths. It’s very complicated and very dangerous.’

‘Is that the only way to get to the temple?’

She nodded.

‘The worshippers walk through the throne-room to get to the temple?’

‘Ordinary worshippers don’t go into the temple, Sparhawk – only priests and sacrifices.’

‘We should probably rush the throne-room then. We’ll bar the doors, deal with whatever guards may be in there and then take Otha prisoner. If we put a knife to his throat, I don’t think any of his soldiers will interfere with us.’

‘Otha’s a magician, Sparhawk,’ Tynian reminded him. ‘Taking him prisoner might not be as easy as it sounds.’

‘Otha’s no particular danger at the moment,’ Sephrenia disagreed. ‘We’ve all had spells come apart on us before. It takes a while to recover from that.’

‘Are we ready then?’ Sparhawk asked tensely.

They nodded, and he led them through the doorway.

The corridor leading from the kitchens to Otha’s throne-room was narrow and not very long. Its far end was illuminated by ruddy torchlight. As they neared that light, Talen slipped on ahead, his soft-shod feet making no sound on the flagstone floor. He returned in a few moments. ‘They’re all there,’ he whispered in a voice tight with excitement. ‘– Annias, Martel and the rest. It looks as if they just got here. They’re still wearing travellers’ cloaks.’

‘How many guards in the room?’ Kurik asked him.

‘Not too many. Twenty or so at the most.’

‘The rest of them are probably out in the halls looking for us.’

‘Can you describe the room?’ Tynian asked. ‘And the places where the guards are standing?’

Talen nodded. ‘This corridor opens out not far from the throne itself. You’ll be able to pick Otha out of the rest almost immediately. He looks a lot like a garden slug. Martel and the others are gathered around him. There are two guards at each of the doors – except for the archway right behind the throne. Nobody’s guarding that one. The rest of the guards are scattered along the walls. They’re wearing mail and swords, and each one of them is holding a long spear. There are a dozen or so burly fellows in loincloths squatting near the throne. They don’t have any weapons.’