"Well thrown! Oh, well thrown!"
Under the vengeful sweep of the singing blade Polaris had leaped and caught the Maeronican around the middle. The blow of the sword fell harmless. But Polaris swung Bel-Ar up to his shoulder, aye, and over it, and dashed him down on the marble floor.
One of the golden captains of the guard ran to the king's side and unhelmed him. Bel-Ar was dead, his back broken by the terrible fall.
"Heard ever a man the like?" roared Jastla. "The strongest warrior in Adlaz tossed like a toy and slain by an unarmed man!"
Through the fierce fray Glorian had sat like a statue, unable to stir or speak. As the Rutharians shouted in triumph, she roused and cried out:
"Look to the priest! Haste! He burns!"
Unnoticed in the stir of the combat, the ray of Shamar had moved on down the length of the altar. The priests in the dome had fled their posts in terror, and there had been none to stay the mechanism. In the path of Shamar's finger lay Rhaen, Shamar's priest, swooned and helpless. The ray struck him. Aid was too late.
Rhaen was a horrid sight when he was pulled from the altar. His soul had gone—perhaps to seek the god whom he had served.
On Ixstus's head stood Glorian in her silver armor.
"So ends the religion of Shamar!" she cried. With the battle-ax she carried, she bent over and struck the crystal vase and shattered it.