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Zoltan reacted quickly, grabbing the gun and spinning towards the shriek. László held the tire iron high, its arc heading straight for Zoltan’s head, his eyes a berserker’s, crazed with savagery. There was no choice in that moment and Zoltan fired the gun, almost reflexively, as if he were under fire in enemy territory. It was kill or be killed, and here, under his great city, it had finally come to this most basic of human drives to stay alive.
The bullet hit László in the chest and the look on his face was pure disbelief.
He dropped the tire iron and turned, clutching at the altar. The Holy Right still lay there and as he toppled, László grabbed it, pulling it to his chest like a talisman. His blood pumped out, soaking the mummified hand and Zoltan could only watch as his once frie
