Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Seventeen

Everyone stared as Beldyn fell, dropping first to his knees, then slumping backward in a senseless heap. Some gasped, a few put their hands to their mouths, but coming so soon after the healing, his collapse took everyone aback.

With a cry. Cathan shoved his way through the mass of villagers, hurrying to the monk’s side. The holy light continued to burn, rippling silver and making soft, crystalline sounds, but Cathan didn’t balk. Holding his breath, he knelt hurrying and reached into the glow. It was a strange feeling, like putting his hands in a cool stream on a hot day, and the hairs on his arms stood erect, but there was no pain. Feeling around inside the light, he found Beldyn’s head, pillowed on one outflung arm and lifted it, propping it in his lap. The monk’s skin was clammy, and for a heartbeat Cathan feared he might be dead, but then he felt the body stir and the faint hiss of breath, and he sighed in relief.

Others were crowding close now, and the townsfolk parted to let them through, Ilista, Tavarre, Sir Gareth. Wentha was there too, somewhere-she had been standing beside him. Cathan heard their voices, taut with worry, but he didn’t listen; his attention fixed on Beldyn, his hands moving within the light to brush hair from the monk’s brow. The glow was already beginning to fade. Through it, he could see Beldyn’s youthful face, pale and slack, the lips parted, keeping a hit of the smile they’d held before he fell.

Cathan patted Beldyn’s cheek. “Reverence,” he asked. “Can you hear me?”

Beldyn stirred, moaning, and his eyelids trembled open. The blue fire in his eyes was banked, but it flared a little when he saw Cathan. His smile widened.

“You kept your word,” he said. “You came to my aid.”

Nodding, Cathan continued to stroke his cheek. “How can I help?”

Beldyn considered this. Letting out a shuddering breath, he glanced not only at Cathan, but the others as well.

“Help me up,” he said.

Cathan hesitated, looking at Ilista. The First Daughter hit her lip, unsure.

“Do it,” Beldyn insisted. “The Kingpriest’s warriors won’t wait for me to gather my strength.”

It was true, Cathan knew. Even now, the soldiers were heading for Luciel. Time was dear. So with a swallow, he grabbed Beldyn under his arms and rose, lifting the monk’s weight. In a moment, Beldyn was on his feet again, though he leaned much of his weight into Cathan’s shoulder. They exchanged looks, and Beldyn smiled.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said.

They left Luciel an hour later with whatever they could carry. The sun set soon after that, but they kept on, moving well into the evening. Finally, when it was full dark and they had put two leagues of wilderness between themselves and the town, they stopped and spent the night huddled and shivering in the shelter of a stand of aspen. They lit no fires, for fear of the Scatas.

Hours later, they woke-more tired, it seemed, than when they’d made camp-to the sight of ruddy light smearing the horizon. At first they thought it was dawn, but the glow was to the south, not the east They stared silently, knowing what it meant but not daring to speak of it. The Kingpriesf s men were burning their homes. Whatever became of them, no more maps would bear the name of Luciel.

The Scatas would not be so easily sated, however. Soon the riders would pick up their trail, if they hadn’t already. As the villagers watched the fireglow, some of them weeping, Tavarre and Sir Gareth drew the leaders of the band aside to talk.

“Well never make it,” Gareth said, studying a map of Taol. Scowling, he traced his finger along the distance to Govinna, still many leagues away. “We can’t outrun imperial cavalry.”

“Can we hide from them?” Ilista asked.

Tavarre glanced at the villagers and shrugged. “Where? There’s two hundred of us.”

“We’re done, then,” Vedro said, and spat.

“No.”

Everyone stopped, turning to look in surprise. Last night’s healing had left Baldyn pale and weak, but he was recovering, and the silver light dimmed to a glimmer around him. His eyes blazed, silencing questions. Half the bandits and more than one of the Knights couldn’t meet that unsettling gaze at all and looked away.

“There is a way,” he said, pointing at the map. His finger marked a spot ten miles to the north, where the old road passed over the River Edessa. “This crossing. Is it a ford or a bridge?”

Tavarre leaned in, scratching his beard. “Bridge. That’s high ground there-the river flows through a gorge.”

“Good!” Gareth proclaimed, his eyes glinting. “We can cross, then burn it behind us.”

The baron shook his head. “We could, if it were made of wood. That bridge is stone.”

Everyone looked at one as the spark of hope they had felt faded. Beldyn, however, still stared at the crossing.

“Then we’ll knock it down,” he said.

“How?” Tavarre pressed. “We have no tools, and even if we did, it would take days-oh.”

He stopped, seeing the look in Beldyn’s crystalline eyes. Everyone who saw knew what he had meant. Healing was not the only power the god had given him. Looking at him, the others felt some of his conviction flow into them. Besides, they had no other option but surrender, and that path surely led to the gibbet for them all.

After dispatching riders to trail behind and serve as watchers, the folk of Luciel-all of them cold, hungry and tired- broke camp and set forth, through the morning mist. Behind them, the distant glow of Luciel’s death vanished in the brightening dawn.

They first saw the bridge late that morning, as the road humped over a hill-shoulder. The refugees halted at its crest. Less than a league away, the trail wound up to the lip of a chasm, where a narrow arch of white stone spanned the gap. Huge figures, carved from streaked granite, loomed at either end: statues of warriors, wearing old-fashioned, banded armor and holding oblong shields and tall spears. They had been four, once, but one had crumbled to pieces with the passage of years, and another was missing its head and shield arm. The others stared out, their beardless faces grim.

The villagers were exhausted from hours of hard marching, but now a ragged cheer broke out as they beheld the bridge. A few bandits joined in, raising their swords in the air.

“Is that it, Cathan?” Wentha asked. “Are we going to be safe now?”

He looked up at where she sat, astride his horse. He’d given it to her to ride, jogging alongside the whole time. He wanted dearly to tell her yes, everything would be all right, but glancing at Beldyn, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. The monk’s face was drawn, weary. Even if the god had given him the power to destroy the bridge, would he have the strength to wield it? Cathan bit his lip.

Now he heard it, a new sound, rising above the murmur of voices and the wind’s whistling: a low, ominous rumble coining from behind them. Hoofbeats. Freezing with dread, he turned and looked back down the slope, half-expecting to see hundreds of blue-cloaked Scatas bearing down on them. He didn’t, although what he did see did little to raise his spirits either: the bandits’ lookouts, lashing their horses as they thundered up the hill.

Tavarre and Gareth wheeled their steeds, cantering back to meet them, so the villagers wouldn’t hear their breathless report. It was needless, though. The scouts’ flushed faces and the glisten of blood on one man’s arm told them enough. An uneasy murmur rippled through the mob as the baron came around and started back toward them. His scars seemed like canyons, cutting through his glowering face. “Get to the bridge,” he told them. “Move!” The villagers didn’t need to hear more. Their weariness forgotten, they surged forward again. Those with the strength broke into a run. Others glanced back, but still there was no sign of pursuit. Cathan could feel it now, though, shaking the ground beneath him: the hammering of hundreds of hoofs, and the shrill of war-horns with it.

Legs burning, he looked up at Wentha. His sister was white with fear, clutching the saddle horn. Then he looked at the distance to the bridge, and clenched his teeth. They still had nearly two miles to go. Swallowing, he drew his sword.

“Cathan!” Wentha shouted. “What are you doing?” “I’ll be all right,” he said, hoping it wasn’t a lie. “Blossom, listen. I want you to ride ahead without me. Don’t stop till you’re past the bridge.”

She shook her head, her eyes filling with fear. Before she could say a word, though, he slapped the horse on its rump with the flat of his blade. Whinnying, it pelted down the path as Wentha clung to its reins. Cathan’s throat tightened as he watched her go.

The bridge crept closer, the slowness of it terrifying him. Despite shouting from Tavarre and Gareth to move faster, many of the refugees could only manage a limping walk. They were too spent to manage more. The armored statues loomed, frowning at them. They dwarfed the first riders-Wentha among them-as they passed them by, clattering over the arch as fast as their horses would carry them. Cathan tried to keep focused on them, but his gaze kept drifting back over his shoulder, seeking some sign of the soldiers. The hammer of their horses’ hooves grew to a roar, echoing among the hills. Again and again, though, he didn’t see them.

Until, finally, he did.

He faltered, his skin growing cold as he looked back up the hill-shoulder. A row of blue-caped riders stood their horse atop it, their bronze helmets glinting in the sun. As he watched, they raised their swords and spears, shouting a chorus of wild war cries, and then they plunged down the slope toward the refugees’ poorly guarded rear. Cathan turned back to the bridge. The first few villagers on foot were crossing now, urged along by Beldyn and Lady Ilista. The span was narrow, though, and quickly a mob formed, shoving and clamoring to be the next across the gorge.

They would never make it, Cathan realized. The riders were too close. He spat a curse.

“Baravais, Kharai!” roared a voice just then. “Men of Solamnia, to me!”

Turning, Cathan saw Sir Gareth waving his sword, riding back through the press of villagers. Hearing his call, the other Knights converged on him, forming a small knot at the rear of the throng, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. Gareth spoke to them, then as one they nodded, lowered their visors, and rode back toward the Scatas.

“Wait!” Cathan cried. He stopped in his tracks, turning to run after the Knights. “What are you doing?”

Hearing him, Gareth twisted in his saddle and shook his head. “This isn’t your fight, lad.”

“But… there’s only six of you, and there’s-” Cathan broke off, waving at the onrushing horsemen.

“Yes,” Gareth said, “and Draco Paladin willing, it will be enough.”

Their eyes met through the slits of his helmet, and Cathan saw a determination that made him pull up short. He had never seen a man glad to die, but here it was. He couldn’t know for sure because of the helmet, but he felt certain the Knight was smiling. Eyes stinging with tears, he turned around again and ran back toward the bridge.

Ilista was standing beneath a looming statue, urging villagers across the chasm, when she heard the first clash of steel on steel. She turned, already knowing what she would see. She’d heard Gareth call to his men, and had known his intent. Even so, a gasp racked her throat when she beheld the Knights.

They had spread out across the path, the thinnest of floodwalls against the torrent. Now they fought, their blades flashing as they met the Scatas’ vanguard. Sword rang against sword, scraped across shield, glanced off armor as they braced themselves, holding back the deluge. As she watched, several soldiers toppled from their saddles, badly cut or run through, and the rest stopped, held back by the Knights’ furious onslaught.

It couldn’t last. The Scatas’ officers bawled at them, shouting furious orders, and quickly the soldiers firmed up, their ranks closing once more. They came on again, swords rising and falling, spears thrusting with vicious precision. Gareth’s men held firm, but even so they soon suffered their first loss: a red-haired Knight of the Crown who took a spear through his breastplate, then collapsed with a crash. His fellows didn’t pause, though: quickly the Knights spread out further, evening the spaces between them.

Watching, Ilista felt a rush of emotion-admiration, dread, sorrow, guilt. Another Knight went down, his neck pouring blood where a Scata’s sword had nearly severed it. The others spaced out again, spreading even further. It was too little now, though, and the line started giving ground, fighting with redoubled fury as they backed their horses toward the bridge.

Someone caught her arm, snapping her back to her senses: Tavarre. His eyes were alive with stubborn fire. “Your Grace!” he exclaimed. “You must get across! I’ll keep people moving here-go with Beldyn!”

He pointed, and she looked. While she’d been watching the battle, the young bandit-what was his name? — had gotten to Beldyn and was escorting him across the bridge, surrounded by throngs of villagers. Swallowing, she signed the triangle over Tavarre. He pushed her away, propeEing her after the monk.

Quickly she reached the bridge and began to follow Beldyn and the young bandit. Halfway across, she looked over the bridge’s crumbling rail, then quickly away. The gorge was deep, the foaming Edessa so far below that it seemed a white line tumbling among the stones. The wind gusted across the bridge, flapping her robes, threatening to fling her out into the void. She shut her eyes a moment, taking deep breaths, and pushed on to the chasm’s far side.

When she reached it, she glanced back. Only three Knights remained, fighting furiously as they backed toward the gorge. She shook her head at the sight, wondering how Gareth and his men could stand before the press at all.

Beldyn was to her left, waving from where he stood with young Cathan-that was his name! — at the foot of the statue that had completely fallen to ruin. Bits of rubble overgrown with moss and ivy lay scattered about the carved warrior’s feet. He gestured, beaming, and she went. Beldyn’s eyes were shut, his face blank, and he clutched his medallion in his hand.

“You must be my eyes, Efisa,” he said. “Tell me when to act.” Bowing his head, he began to pray.

Ilista wasted no time. Hitching up her robes, she climbed onto the shattered statue’s pedestal and looked back. The last of the refugees were on the bridge now, clumped together as they made their way across. Tavarre and Vedro brought up the rear, shouting obscenities and waving their arms as they herded the villagers along.

Farther on, she saw a flash of sunlight on armor as Sir Reginar fell before the Scatas, dropping to his knees with a sword wound in his side, then vanishing into the press. Sir Gareth, the bravest and stoutest, was alone now, almost at the chasm, battling furiously. His horse was gone, and his armor was awash with blood, though she couldn’t tell how much was his enemies’ and how much his own.

“Be ready!” she called to Beldyn.

Somehow, Gareth held the bridge. His sword snapped as he parried a slash from a Scata, and the blade glinted as it tumbled into the gorge. He didn’t seem to notice-undaunted, he fought on with the weapon’s broken stump. His shield, battered and gashed, finally split in two. He flung the pieces at the riders then drew a dagger from his belt.

“For the Lightbringer!” he bellowed, and hurled himself at the soldiers with the last of his strength.

Then he was gone.

Ilista stared, horrified, as Gareth disappeared among the Scatas. Shaking, she looked to the bridge. The last of the refugees were stepping off the span now, Tavarre and Vedro shoving them onto solid ground. The first of the Scatas started across, a thicket of spearheads extended before them. Ilista swallowed, touching her medallion.

“Now, Beldyn!” she cried.

At once, the young monk opened his eyes. Blue fire danced within them as he flung out his right arm, then he raised his voice in a shout that lashed the air like a thunderclap.

“Pridud!” he cried. Break!

A rumble shook the ground, startling the villagers and making the Scatas’ horses rear. The bridge shuddered, dust and chips of stone showering into the chasm. The noise of the tremor echoed among the hills, like the growl of some long-vanished dragon.

Sparks flared from Beldyn’s fingertips as he turned his outstretched hand palm upwards. “Pridud!”

The earth trembled again, louder and harder. On either side of the chasm, men drew back, shouting in terror. The headless statue collapsed altogether, tumbling into the gorge, and spider-web cracks spread across the bridge, shaking flagstones loose. The soldiers on the span turned, desperate, trying to flee to their fellows.

With a snap, Beldyn’s fingers curled into a fist.

“PRIDUD!”

The silver light flared around Beldyn, blossoming from his hand to engulf him, then flashing outward in a rippling wave that struck the bridge like a dwarf-smith’s hammer. As it did, the ground shook so violently Ilista had to clutch to the ruined statue’s ankle to steady herself. Everywhere, men and women stumbled and fell. The bridge bucked, twisting horribly as more and more cracks widened all over it. The Scatas all but hurled themselves back toward solid ground beneath Beldyn’s holy fire.

With an awful rending sound, the bridge burst asunder, sending stones and soldiers and horses alike thundering into the frothing river below. At the same time, Beldyn began to fall as well, his knees buckling as Cathan reached out and grabbed him, easing him to the ground.

The refugees walked on as the sun disappeared behind the Khalkists, the first stars agleam in the darkening sky. They moved slowly, their pursuers left behind, stranded by the bridge’s collapse. The deaths of the Knights weighed heavily on them all.

The villagers looked to Beldyn with deeper awe than before. They had seen him heal; now they had seen him destroy. Too, they had seen what it cost him, for the shrouding light did not go away. It still shone brightly, like a second silver moon come to earth. He rode in a daze, head bowed, and did not look up. Several times he slumped and would have fallen, had Cathan not been at his side to bear him up.

Still he rode, refusing to stop, and so the borderfolk followed him, fighting through their own weariness to keep going well into the night, finally halting in a narrow cleft, out of the frigid wind. Huddled around smoldering fires, they ate a meager supper, then fell into restless slumber.

Not everyone found rest, however. Ilista sat alone on a boulder outside the camp, staring skyward, where dark clouds scudded, blurred by her tears. She had tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she saw Sir Gareth, standing defiantly before the bridge, his broken sword ablaze with sunlight. Again and again she watched him fall, the Lightbringer’s name on his lips. He had given his Me, died with honor, but only the people in her ragged band would ever know. The word that went back to Istar would be that he’d fallen protecting traitors and bandits from the iron weight of the law.

Who is to say that isn’t true? she wondered, shaking her head. Kurnos is the crowned Kingpriest-Symeon named him so. Who am I to act against him?

“You are my servant,” said a voice, “doing my will.”

Starting, Ilista rose to her feet There was someone there, in the darkness, a shadow against the night. She drew back, reaching for her mace-then stopped, realizing she’d left the weapon at camp.

“Who is it?” she hissed. “Show yourself!”

He did, stepping close enough that she could make him out in the moonlight, a fat man in a white habit, a smile brightening his florid face. It was Brother Jendle, the monk she had dreamed about, these many weeks ago, in her room in Istar.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She didn’t-couldn’t-move, but only stared with her mouth open. His eyes sparkled with starlight.

“You’re having doubts,” he noted, “after what happened today.”

She blinked back tears. “Sir Gareth-he was sworn to protect me.”

“He did. If he hadn’t held the bridge, the soldiers would have caught you. I wish things could have been different, but Sir Gareth did what was right. We should not mourn those who die fulfilling their purpose in this world,”

Dista looked away, out into the dark. What purpose? she wanted to rail. What are we doing? What are we? A small, hungry band of ruffians, with both the church and the imperial army arrayed against us. How can we stand against the might of Istar? How do we know we’re even right to try it?

“Damn it, Paladine,” she whispered, “what do you want of me?”

When she looked back, though, the monk was gone.

She stayed on the boulder until the silver moon set. Then she returned to camp. When she slept at last, Ilista did not dream.