It occurred to her belatedly that the disc might have been doing them all a service, for Enth was abruptly moving, sinuous as a serpent, and had his hands about Abnasio’s throat in an instant, shockingly quick. Cyrene opened her mouth to stop the monster—because it was a monster, and because Abnasio was still a man, and of the Light, despite everything—but something in her rebelled. Something wanted to see the man-spider pop the priest’s head right off his shoulders.

Then Dion was there, her own holy device searing with radiance, and Enth dropped away with a wretched sound of pain and frustration. Abnasio scrambled away, shouting, “To me! To me!” in a hoarse voice.

Dion dropped to one knee beside Lief, fumbling for his hand. “Armes is with you,” she said fiercely.

“Where was he… a minute ago?” came the thief’s croak.

“The power of Armes will let me absorb your pain and hurt. Armes will let my strength heal your flesh.” Dion looked up. “Harathes, keep them off me. Penthos, clear a way to the stairs. Cyrene, take the creature out of here. Take it out of the city. We will find you when we’re done here.”

Cyrene opened her mouth to object, because if there was fighting to be done she wanted to do it, and if there was nursemaiding of monsters, then she wanted no part of it. Then she saw Dion’s face, set into hard, stern lines: not a woman to be crossed, not at all.

In the next moment, Abnasio’s people had regrouped, those that remained ambulatory and conscious, and were rushing for Dion’s little band. This also cut off the sole means of exit. Cyrene leant close to Enth and made herself say very clearly, “Just follow me,” knowing that it would have no option but to obey her.

She already knew it was hopeless, that the monks would have plenty of opportunity to get between her and the stairs, and that they would overwhelm her in the end, but then Penthos gave a whoop—a child’s gleeful cry—and a line of fire seared its way across the floor of the cellar, drawing a wall of flame that drove the monks back and gave her a clear run at the way out.

She cast one glance back as she got to the foot of the steps. Harathes was neck-deep in monks, and she saw Penthos summon his powers and start twitching his fingers contemptuously at them as though flicking drops of water, save that each flick struck the monks like a strong man’s punch. Even so, he was looking drawn, burning through his reserves of energy, exhausting himself not by excess but by the restraint that Dion had imposed on him.

And Dion herself was still kneeling by Lief, giving of herself to try and save his life.