The baleful eyes stared at him after he had spoken. If the being behind those eyes understood the words, there was no clear sign.
The man stammered on: 'She came as a sorceress with whom I had arranged a rendezvous for this night. How could I know that it was a disguise?'
The Ilsig language, suddenly, did not seem to be a sufficient means of communication. Stulwig had heard that its verbal structure was despised by Rankans who had learned the speech of the conquered race. The verbs - it was said - were regarded by Rankans as lacking force. Whereas the conqueror's tongue was alive with verbs that expressed intense feeling, absolute purpose, uttermost determination.
Stulwig, fleetingly remembering those comparisons, had the thought: 'To Vashanka it will seem as if I'm begging for mercy, whereas all I want is understanding.'
Feeling hopeless, the man clung to his stave. It was all he had. So he held it up between himself and the great fire-god. But each passing instant he was recalling what Quag, the Hell Hound, had said - about Ils having failed his people of Sanctuary.
Suddenly, it was hard to believe that the minor magic of a failed god, as projected into a wooden stick - however tough the wood -could withstand even one blow from the mighty Vashanka.
As he had that cringing thought, Stulwig grew aware that the god had extended one hand. Instantly, the flame of the arm-hand grew brighter. Abruptly, it leaped. And struck the stave.
Utter confusion of brightness.
And confusion in his dazzled eyes as to what was happening, or what had happened.
Only one thing was clear: the attack of the god against the man had begun.
He was still alive; that was Stulwig's first awareness. Alive with, now, a vague memory of having seen the lightning strike the stave. And of hearing a base voiced braying sound. But of what exactly had happened at the moment of the fire interacting with the stave there was no after-image in his eyes.
Uncertain, still somehow clinging miraculously to the stave, Stulwig took several steps backwards before the awful brightness let go of his vision centres. And there, striding towards him, was the fire-god. •'
Up came the stave, defensively. But even as he was remembering the words of Cappen Varra, about holding the stave in front of him, Stulwig - the stave fighter - instinctively swung the stave in a hitting motion.
Swung it at the great being less than five feet away. And felt a momentary savage surge of hope, as mighty Vashanka actually ducked to avoid the blow.
Stave fighting! He had done a lot of it out there in the wilderness, where he either tended wild herbs, or gathered herbs for his greenhouse. Amazing how often a wandering nomad or two, seeing him alone, instantly unsheathed swords and came in for the kill.
In such a battle it would be deathly dangerous merely to prod with the stave. Used as a prod, the stave could be snatched. At which, it was merely a tussle of two men tugging for possession. And virtual certainty that some wild giant of a man would swiftly wrestle it away from the unwise person who had mistakenly tried to use it as if it also were a sword.
By Ils - thought a jubilant Stulwig - there is power in this stave. And he, the lightning-god, perceives it as dangerous.
With that realization, he began to swing with all the force he could muster: whack, whack, whack! Forgot was Cappen Varra's admonishment to use the stave only as a barrier.
It was fascinating - and exciting - to Stulwig to notice that Vashanka jumped back from the stave whenever it swung towards him. Once, the god actually leaped way up to avoid being hit. The stave went by almost two foot-lengths beneath his lowest extremity.
-But why is he staying? Why isn't he trying to get away if the stave is dangerous to him? ... That thought came suddenly, and at once brought a great diminishment to Stulwig's battle impulse.
The fear that hit the man abruptly was that there had to be a reason why Vashanka continued to fight by avoidance. Could it be that he expected the power in the stave to wear off?
The awful possibility brought back the memory of what Ils-Cappen Varra had said. The instant shock of what must already have happened to the stave's defence power sent Stulwig backing at top speed towards the hallway leading to the stairs. He gulped with joy, then, as he glanced back for just an instant, and saw that the normally barricaded door had been left wide open by Azyuna.
With that, he spun on his heels, and almost literally flung himself down the stairs, taking four, and once five, steps at a time. He came to the bottom. And, mercifully, that door also was open. It had been hard to see as he made his "wild escape effort.
At that ultimate last moment, the entire stairwell suddenly lit up like day. And there was instantly no question but that the demon-god had belatedly arrived, and was in hot pursuit.
Out in that night, so dark near his entrance, Stulwig ran madly to. the nearest corner. Darted around it. And then ran along the street until he came to a main thoroughfare. There he stopped, took up position with his back against a closed stall, and his stave in front of him.
Belated realization came that he was still stark naked.
There were people here even at this late hour. Some of them looked at Stulwig. But almost everybody stopped and stared in the direction from which Stulwig had come - where a great brightness shone into the sky, visible above a long, low building with a dozen projecting towers.
Everywhere, now, voices were expressing amazement. And then, even as Stulwig wondered if Vashanka would actually continue his pursuit - abruptly, the brilliant light winked out.
It took a while, then, to gather his courage. But the feeling was: even though I made the mistake of fighting, I won-
Returning took a while longer. Also, the streets were darker again; and so his nakedness was not so obvious. Passersby had to come close before, in a city where so many were skimpily dressed, they could see a naked man at night. Thus he was able to act cautiously, without shame.
Finally, then, holding his stave in front of him, Stulwig climbed the stairs up to his darkened quarters. Found the candle that was always lit (and replaced, of course, at proper intervals) at the bottom of a long tube in his office. And then, when he had made certain that the place was, indeed, free of intruders, he hastily replaced the barricade.
A little later.
Stulwig lay sprawled on his bed, unable to sleep. He considered taking one of the herbs he normally prescribed for light sleepers. But that might send him off into a drugged unconsciousness. And for this night that seemed a last resort. Not to be done casually.
Lying there, tossing, he grew aware that there were sounds coming to him out of the night. Voices. Many voices. A crowd of voices.
Huh!
Up and over into the greenhouse. First, removing a shutter. And then, looking out and down.
The streets that he could see from his second floor were alive with torchlights. And, everywhere, people. Several times, as passersby went beneath his window, Stulwig leaned out and called stentoriously: 'What is it? What's happening?'
From the replies that were yelled back, totalling at least as many as he could count on the fingers of both hands, he was able to piece together the reason for the celebration - for that was what it was.
The people of Sanctuary celebrating a victory.
What had occurred: beginning shortly after the brilliance of Vashanka had dwindled to darkness in a puff of vanishment, messengers began to run along the streets of the Maze and through all the lesser sections of the city.
The messengers were Jubal's spies and informants. And as a result of the message they spread -