A column of thick black smoke was pouring up from Dыsarra, from every part of the city, as if the black walls were the rim of a vast chimney; an orange glow lighted the sky. More smoke and more of the orange light streamed from the crater above the city. As Frima watched, she saw one of the temple towers sway and then collapse. The rumbling was now a steady roar, but comfortingly distant.
Nobody emerged from the gate. She watched, expecting a fleeing multitude, but no one appeared; instead, the walls on either side of the ruined gate abruptly tottered and fell inward. Something red and glowing poured forth where they had stood, and she realized at last that the volcano had awakened and was consuming Dыsarra.
Garth glanced back at the crumbling black city and the lava that was devouring it. "So much, then, for the cult of Aghad," he said.
"Do you think they're all in there?" Frima asked.
Garth shrugged. "Enough of them are. Their god is dead and their temples destroyed; I won't trouble myself about any who may have survived." Without the Sword of Bheleu driving him on, he was no longer obsessed with the cult's destruction to the last man. He had his revenge.
Frima looked up at the overman's leathery, noseless face, then back at her vanishing birthplace. She did not understand what Garth meant about the god; gods did not die, she told herself.
Still, she, too, felt that she had had her fill of vengeance. She was ready to begin finding herself a new life. She suspected, as well, that she might be carrying more than her own life; she was beginning to notice other indications, in addition to her bouts of nausea, that she might be pregnant. The prospect delighted her. She turned away from Dыsarra and looked eastward toward the rising sun.