“As tall as it needs to be,” she said reluctantly. “The arti­fact seems to sense the need and intent of the person who wields it. I believe it will adjust to the wall it is meant to conquer.”

“Well, then, we have no problem, do we? Nor would we, unless Thornhold’s wall were a hundred feet tall.”

She struggled to hide her consternation, but Dag took careful note of it. “As you wish,” she said, and handed him two rings identical to the one in his hand.

Too easily, Dag thought. He shook his head. “You do it.” Bronwyn took a long breath and closed her hand in a fist around all three rings. “Stand out of the way, Cara,” she warned the girl. “I want you to go over to the far wall, by the tower. Just to be safe.”

To Dajs surprise, the child offered no resistance. But though she watched from a distance, there was little of her usual curiosity in her brown eyes. In fact, her expression was unusually shuttered.

“Do not do this thing!” burst out the paladin. He strug­gled mightily against the men who held him. “Better to die than to give such power into the hands of evil.”

Dag Zoreth lifted one brow and shot a sidelong glance at Bronwyn. “Earnest sort, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth.

She threw an angry look at the man and set the tiny siege tower on the ground. She put the three rings into place, one at a time, and then she leaped to her feet and ran toward Can.

Instinctively Dag followed suit. Behind him, he heard the scrape of a heavy object being dragged quickly against packed dirt and the creaking groans of expanding wood. He darted a look over his shoulder and then redoubled his pace. The size of the tower, and the speed with which it grew, were astonishing. Exhilarating!

In moments, the tower had reached its full height. It stood in their midst, like a shining beacon showing Dag the way to the future he craved.

Not a man moved, not a person spoke. All gazed in awe at the huge siege tower in their midst.

Suddenly the silence was shattered by the sound of splin­tering wood. A door on the side of the enclosed tower flew open, sending shards of wood spinning as the bolt which had held it shut gave way.

A fierce, red-bearded dwarf erupted from the tower in full charge. Ringlets of bright red sprang from her head in wild profusion and streaked behind her as she ran, giving her the appearance of a vengeful medusa. Though stunned into immobility, Dag remembered that dwarf. His raid had dis­rupted her wedding feast and had left her new-made hus­band lying dead from many wounds. As he eyed the female’s furious approach, it came to Dag that he might well have done that slaughtered dwarf a favor.

Then the shock lifted, and fierce anger took its place. Sen­sation flooded into his dazed mind. The thunder of perhaps fifty pairs of dwarven booth, the roars and cries of the venge­ful attackers, the sound of axe against sword, the smell of blood and of bodies already voiding themselves in death, and the bright, coppery taste of fear.

Dag whiried and seized a sword from the scabbard of the soldier nearest him. He ignored the battle raging around him as his eyes sought out the gift his sister had so thought­fully delivered.

The paladin was not difficult to find. His bright hair caught the faint light of the dying day, and his young, strong baritone was raised in a hymn to Tyr. Dajs jaw tightened. He knew that hymn and could sing along with Algorind of Tyr if he chose to do so.

What he chose to do was to cut that song from the man’s throat.

* * * * *

Never had Algorind seen such a transformation come over a mortal face. As the priest of Cyric gazed upon him, life and warmth and humanity itself drained away.

Dag Zoreth raised a sword and touched it slowly to his forehead in salute, his eyes holding Algorind’s. As he lifted it, the silver blade darkened, and began to glow. Purple fire danced along the edges, throwing eerie shadows across the sharp lines and hollows of the Cyricist’s face.

“You signed on to fight evil, boy,” Dag Zoreth said, in a voice that was less like that of a single mortal man than a chorus of angry beings speaking in concert. The voice rang out eas­ily over the chaos of battle and reached out for Algorind like a grasping, unseen hand. “You are about to realize your fond­est ambition.”

The force of so much evil, so much hatred, drained the blood from the paladin’s face, but he lifted his sword, mir­rored Dag Zoreth’s salute, and ran to meet the priest’s charge.

Black and violet fire flashed forward. Algorind parried, sending sparks flying. He advanced, his eyes steady on that inhumanly evil face, his sword dipping and slashing, work­ing the priest’s blade and keeping him on the defensive. He had little choice. The unholy fire gave incredible speed and strength to the Cyricist’s sword, more than compensating for the difference in their stature and training. Algorind had found more skilled opponents, but never had he faced one as dangerous.

This victory, if such he was granted, would be not his, but Tyfs.

* * * * *

Bronwyn covered Cara’s eyes from the glare of the purple fire and the terrible fury of the duel raging just a few feet away, and—most horrifying of all—the evil incarnated on Dag Zoreth’s face. She scooped Cara into her arms and started to rise. “We’ve got to get away,” she whispered.

The child wrenched out of her grasp. “I won’t leave him,” she insisted. “I can’t! It’s my right to see what happens.”

Bronwyn remembered her own despair at the siege of Thornhold and knew she could not deny the child this. Nor could they leave if they wanted to. They were backed against the inner wall, and the duel had shifted to block their escape.

A clear, baritone voice began to ring above the sounds of battle, softly at first and then gaining in strength and power. Though Bronwyn could not see the paladin’s face, she was certain that it wore its usual expression of absolute faith, and she had reason to know that Algorind was not one to be lightly dismissed. Algorind sang as he fought, calling out to Tyr in ringing faith that evil would not long prevail.

Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the light that limned Dag Zoreth’s sword began to dim. The Fire of Cyric faltered before the power of Tyr. The purple light began to flicker and then to vanish. In moments, the priest held nothing but a blade.

With three deft movements Algorind disarmed Dag Zoreth. Another stroke sent the priest plummeting to the ground. Cara screamed as her father fell, blood darkening the already-black vestments of his god.

“He’s killing him! Don’t let him kill my father!”

Bronwyn reacted to the pain in the girl’s voice. The Harper leaped forward and hurled herself at the paladin’s back. She fisted one hand in his curly blond halt In one swift movement she pulled her knife, reached around, and placed it at his throat.

For a moment, Bronwyn was sorely tempted to pull the knife back hard and fast. She could finally end this, and she could do it now, but there was enough of her father in her to reject such a dishonorable act. She had caught the paladin in an unguarded moment, when all his being was thrown into the hymn, all his soul devoted to vanquishing evil. Despite everything Algorind had done, she did not want to kill him. But neither would she let him kill Cara’s father before the child’s very eyes.

“Bran,” she said, calling her brother by his old name. “How badly are you hurt? Can you stand? Can you hear me?”

The priest stirred, grimaced, and pressed his hand to his side. He whispered the words of a healing prayer, and some of the color crept back into his pale face. Using his sword as a cane, he struggled to his feet. His gaze settled on Bronwyn and her captive, and a smile of chilling evil curved his lips.