The pictographs hid every sign of entry. All trace. Leaving Halál no trail to follow. Flexing his fists around dual knife hilts, he took a step back. And then several more, retreating until he stood inches from the top step next to the altar. Destroyed by the firestorm, tiny flames still ate its wooden frame. Smoke swirled, rising to meet the vaulted ceiling, sending an acrid smell across the rotunda. Caught fast by the slow burn, he stared at the fire, then shook his head. Devil take him, the heat had been horrifying. A real flare-up. One that had left scorch marks on the marble tiles and caused the gold altar to liquefy. Upper lip curled off his teeth, he watched a yellow rivulet flow past the tip of his boot. He swallowed the snarl. Frustration served no purpose. Neither did worry, but . . . He couldn’t quell either. Two of his men lay dead, burned to death by magical blue flame. A serious cause for concern.
