Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Twenty-Five

The men on Govinna’s southern wall crouched low, peering through the crenellations that topped its battlements. They had arrows fitted on their bowstrings, quarrels notched on their crossbows, bullets ready in the leather pockets of their slings. Here and there, piles of stones waited to be thrown down to the ground below. Kettles of boiling water-oil was too precious, with trade cut off and winter coming-rested on hingeworks, steaming in the frigid air. Officers paced along the catwalk behind their men, and young boys dashed about, carrying orders and urgent messages.

Lord Tavarre took it all in with a glance as he elbowed his way toward the steps leading to the top of the city’s formidable gatehouse. A crowd had gathered at the wall’s base, jostling and shoving, shouting questions to the sentries above. To their credit, the watchers gave them no heed. Ossirian had taught his men well-this medley of bandits and town guards, with common folk thrown in.

Now, Tavarre thought, if they’ll just follow me as well as they followed him, we might live to see the sunset.

He’d been in the Pantheon’s cellar a quarter-hour ago, pacing before the great stone plug that led to the catacombs-had been there much of the day, in fact, staring down the dusty tunnel, but no matter how hard he’d squinted and scowled, Beldyn and Cathan hadn’t emerged. He had heard from them, and had crossed from worry to fear. They had gone down into the crypt in the middle of the night. It was a bit past midday now, the sun hidden behind a pall of white clouds, and still they hadn’t returned.

Then the runner had arrived, bearing a simple message that sent him running across the city, his heart in his throat. The Scatas had come.

He took the steps three at a time, his legs straining after the run from the temple. At the top a familiar figure awaited him: Vedro, his capable man from Luciel. He gripped a bow in his thick-fingered hands, his face grimmer than usual behind the cheek-guards of his helm.

“What do we have?” Tavarre asked.

Vedro spat on the flagstones, then waved out past the merlons. “See for yourself.”

Tavarre pushed between a pair of archers to stare out at the hills. The high walls, perched at the summit of one of Taol’s tallest hills, gave him a commanding view. He followed the road as it snaked off toward the southern fiefs, amidst leafless plane trees and moss-speckled boulders, sunlight glinting on the Edessa. He fixed his gaze on a dark mass, more than half a league off but coming closer.

He squinted, shading his eyes with his hand. “Horsemen only?”

“A thousand or about,” Vedro said, spitting again. He’d been chewing some sort of bitter root, which left stains on his teeth.

“An advance force.”

“Aye. Looks like the same lot what chased us, and we lost at the bridge,” Vedro noted. “I sent runners to the other gates and the river too, to warn ‘em. Wouldn’t put it past the sneaky buggers to flank us while we concentrated on this lot.”

“Mmm,” Tavarre muttered, unconvinced. “More likely they’re here to test us.”

Another stream of brown juice shot from Vedro’s lips. “Well, then. Best put on a good show, eh?”

Chuckling, Tavarre settled in to watch the riders approach. They took their time, and the sentries glanced at one another, muttering under their breaths. Many of Govinna’s defenders were young and hadn’t seen battle before. The older men were also edgy. The riders’ deliberate, almost arrogant pace unsettled them all.

“Easy, lads,” Tavare called. “We’re behind walls, don’t forget. We can handle a thousand.” It’s the ten thousand to come that will give us trouble, he thought, grimacing.

Someone-he didn’t look to see who-handed him a crossbow and a case of quarrels. He loaded the weapon and sighted down its length, then lowered it again. Behind him, the Pantheon’s bells pealed, and the other churches joined in, ringing in harmony as they sounded the first bell of the afternoon. Down the wall, a jumpy archer loosed his shot. It flew high and long, but when it fell it was still far short of the riders. Vedro rounded on the bowman, thickening the air with curses, threatening to roast the man’s balls over a brazier. After that, no one else dared let fly early.

Half a mile away, the Scatas began to pick up their pace. Fanning out at some unheard order, they reached to their saddles for bows. Tavarre hunkered lower, bringing up his crossbow as Vedro raised a hand, ready to order the first volley. He stared, judging the distance-still too far, not quite yet. But nearly… nearly…

“Loose!” Vedro roared.

A chorus of thrums sounded along the wall, then the receding buzz of arrows and quarrels as they streaked away from the city. Tavarre fired with the others, grabbing the string of his crossbow and pulling it back to reload as he tracked the missiles’ flight. He lost sight of his own shot amid the volley, a deadly black cloud that dove at the approaching horsemen, falling all around them, and into their midst as well.

Men screamed and cursed. Most of the archers’ shots missed, thudding into the ground and shattering against rocks and paving stones, but here and there a rider clutched himself and pitched forward against his horse’s neck or toppled from the saddle with a crash of armor. Horses died too, shrieking as they threw their riders or fell on top of them-again, not many, but enough to raise a cheer from the bowmen along the wall. Fists jabbed the air in triumph.

“Quit yapping, you dolts!” Vedro barked. “There’s plenty more where they came from. Loose again!”

The second volley was more ragged than the first, but no less deadly. Again the missiles rained down, and again men fell like scythed wheat, but they were using their oblong shields now, catching shots that might have killed them. One paused long enough to show his arrow-riddled shield-it had six shafts buried in its face-to the rider beside him. He paid for the mistake, a seventh shaft suddenly sprouting from his eye. Tavarre fancied it was his quarrel that knocked the man from his horse, but there was no way to be sure. A dozen other men could have made the shot. He didn’t care. A fierce grin spreading across his face, he cocked to fire again.

Aided by their high vantage, many of the sentries loosed a third shot, and some a fourth, before the enemy was close enough to shoot back. After that, though, the defenders’ victorious shouts turned to cries of alarm as the horsemen raised their bows, and guiding their steeds with their knees, sent their own swarm of arrows arcing upward. Most of those first shots hit the battlements, bursting into clouds of splinters to rain back onto the ground, but a few hit their mark. To Tavarre’s left a man shrieked, his tunic soaking with blood as he grabbed at a shaft that had driven between his ribs. Another archer fell to his right, an arrow bristling in his throat. Still another shot came down a hand’s breadth from the baron’s left knee, burying itself an inch deep into the wooden catwalk. The closeness of it made him jerk away, throwing off his aim, and his next shot went out too far and long, past the rearmost riders.

After that the battle turned chaotic, men on either side shooting as quickly as they could, raining torrents of arrows and bolts down upon each other. Some on the wall started to pitch rocks, shouting with glee as the stones knocked men from their saddles. A few poured out the boiling cauldrons, raising howls from below. Meanwhile, the horsemen rode back and forth along the wall’s length firing back. More than a hundred of them lay dead already, and more fell every minute, toppling from their saddles to lie still.

“For the Lightbringer!” Govinna’s defenders cried, above the screams of the wounded and dying. Hearing the shout, Tavarre gave an involuntary shudder. Gareth had uttered those identical words on the Bridge of Myrmidons, just before he fell.

Today, though, it was the Scatas’ turn to yield. After several more minutes of fierce battle, with a quarter of their number dead, the rest began to flee, galloping down the road and away.

“Ha!” Vedro declared, rising to fire at the few remaining attackers. “Looks like we gave ‘em someth-

A sound, halfway between a crunch and a thud, stopped him in mid-sentence, and he sat down with a grunt on the catwalk. His bow clattered from his hands. Tavarre turned, and winced as he saw the arrow that had punched through Vedro’s leather breastplate.

Vedro looked down at the shaft, a look of puzzlement on his face, as if he couldn’t figure out how it had gotten there. Blood flecked his beard.

“Well,” he said. “That’s no good at all.” He slumped sideways.

Tavarre was still staring at Vedro’s unmoving form-he was still breathing, but raggedly, with blood foaming around the wound-as the city’s defenders began to whoop and yell. Some shouted curses over the merlons, and others raised their weapons in the air. Shaking his head, Tavare looked up and saw the last of the horsemen galloping away, past the bodies of their comrades, past horses left riderless by the fighting, fleeing back down the road where they’d come. A scattering of arrows followed them, but the retreat was too fast, and the shots fell short.

Warily, he rose to watch the enemy go. He didn’t join his men in their cheers, nor did the other nobles and seasoned warriors atop the wall. They knew, as he did, that this skirmish was only the beginning.

What was worse, the riders had hurt them badly. Looking along the wall, Tavarre saw men lying on the catwalk, some writhing and moaning, others ominously still. By his count, a hundred of his men had caught an arrow, and surely half of those were dead. His gaze settled once more on Vedro, sprawled at his feet, wheezing wetly. His men had killed more Scatas than they’d lost, but the Kingpriest’s soldiers could afford to lose such numbers. The rebels didn’t have them to spare. The next time the Scatas attacked, they would come in greater numbers. Far greater numbers.

Sighing, Tavare looked back across the city, toward the Pantheon. “Damn it, MarSevrin,” he muttered. “Where are you?”

I’m dead, Cathan thought.

He’d woken lying on bare stone, surrounded by silence, his nostrils thick with the spicy smell of the dead. After several faltering tries, he’d convinced his eyes to open… and looked into Paladine’s black-bearded face, glowering down on him from above. Though he knew it was only a painting, he cringed, remembering how often-and how recently-he’d spoken hateful words about the god.

When he thought about it, though, he realized death shouldn’t hurt so much. His flesh burned in a dozen different places where the corpses’ claws had scratched him, and a dull throb filled his skull. He’d bitten his tongue, too, and a swollen knot formed there, aching terribly. There was a sharper pain, besides, a jabbing at the small of his back. He reached down underneath him to find out what it was and pulled out a shard of skull, scraps of hairy scalp still clinging to it. He shuddered, flinging it away.

He pushed himself up, but the pain in his head stabbed harder, making him slump down. Nausea whirled in his stomach, and the darkness closed in again, flickering in the corners of his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out again, but he managed to stave off collapse, taking deep breaths of the musty air until the pain in his skull settled down to a dull roar. He sat up again, slower this time, and looked around, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. The way he felt, it had to be a good while.

He was still in the fane, lying in the same spot where the dead priests had dragged him down. Bits of the corpses he’d cut down lay strewn about him, and not far away-he had to look twice to believe it-was his sword. The torch he’d carried had long since guttered out, but the golden glow that suffused the room was plenty of light. He felt a thrill as he realized that the Miceram must still be there in the room with him.

But Beldyn wasn’t.

He struggled to his knees and cast about. The young monk was nowhere to be seen-and the other mummies, the ones he hadn’t destroyed with his blade, were gone as well. Reaching out, he snatched up his sword and heaved himself to his feet. There was no one down by the altar, though the crown still rested atop it, its rubies flashing crimson. He leaned against a statue, staring. There it was, the treasure he and Beldyn had come for-but what use was it, if he couldn’t find the Lightbringer?

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a rough voice.

Cathan yelped, then whirled, his sword rising.

The man stood a few paces from him, clad in the flowing white robes of Paladine’s clergy, and for a heartbeat he thought it was Beldyn. It wasn’t. The priest was older, around forty summers of age, his skin was dusky, and his hair was cropped short, a black stubble instead of the Lightbringer’s long, flowing locks. There was a hardness about his face, too, that was different from the otherworldly intensity of Beldyn’s eyes. On his head rested a platinum diadem, studded with winking emeralds.

“Who-who-” Cathan stammered.

The swarthy man didn’t look at him. His gaze was fixed on the Miceram.

“You see why I took it,” he said softly. “I couldn’t bear to see it on another man’s brow.”

Cathan blinked. There was something not right about the priest. The robes made it hard to tell, but he had the unsettling feeling the man’s feet weren’t touching the floor, and he was wavering a little, like smoke in a breeze. Looking closer, Cathan swore he could see through the cleric to the stone of the far wall. It came to him, with a feeling that was part excitement but mostly terror, that this was no living man, but a spectre of someone long dead.

Then he knew-the scroll. Beldyn had shown him the illumination.

“Pradian?” he asked in a quavering voice.

The first Little Emperor inclined his head toward Cathan. His eyes were pupilless, empty and white.

“Ah, good. You do know me. That will make this easier.” He turned back to the Miceram. “I still remember bringing it here, you know. I was sure, then, that I would come back to claim it. So very certain. So very wrong.”

Looking at the ghost, who was staring longingly at the Crown, Cathan felt a wave of sorrow wash over him. He knew of Pradian the Great-everyone in Taol had heard the tale of his rise and tragic doom. Cathan could see, beneath the ghost’s arm, the dark stain where the arrow had slain him, as he rode back victorious from battle. How different things would have been, but for that one errant shot!

After a moment Cathan shook his head, raising his blade.

“Where’s Beldyn? What have you done with him?”

Pradian stared. Either he didn’t notice the sword pointed at him, or he didn’t care. For a moment he said nothing, then waved a spectral hand. “Oh, him,” he said. “The guardians have him… but he is of no concern. No, young Cathan- you’re the one I’ve been waiting for.”

“Me?” Cathan blurted. He stopped, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the ghost replied, “that you are the one I foretold, so many years ago. Not your friend, the monk.”

Cathan stiffened in shock. He followed the specter’s gaze back to the Miceram, which glittered on the altar, its rubies dancing with light. He could feel something, an undeniable pull, like a lodestone tugging at him. He looked back at Pradian and swallowed. It felt as though the crown was trying to draw him toward it.

The urge to dash down to the altar flared, almost overwhelming him. He nearly gave in to the temptation, took one step forward, but in the end he staved it off, sweat beading on his upper lip as he stared at the crown. “But,” he breathed, “that can’t be. Beldyn’s the one. Ilista saw him wearing it, and Durinen too. He opened the door.”

“No,” said Pradian. “It opened to you. As for the First Daughter and my successor… a trick, that. Easier for me to show the monk wearing the crown than to show you. They were more apt to follow that way. You were more apt to follow.”

The pull strengthened. Cathan’s whole body trembled, the hairs on his arms standing erect. It wasn’t right, he knew that. It was some kind of trick. Beldyn was the rightful King-priest, wasn’t he? And yet… if anyone knew who should claim the Miceram, wasn’t it Pradian? He had put the crown here in the first place, after all.

All at once, Cathan was no longer standing by the row of statues, but rather right before the altar itself. The marble slab gleamed coolly in the Miceram’s light, free of the dust that mantled the rest of the catacombs. The crown glittered atop it, the rubies pulsing with their own inner vibrancy.

Cathan stared at it, his lips parted. He had never wanted something so much in his life.

“Take it,” Pradian whispered gently. “Set it on your brow, and Istar is yours to rule, as it should have been mine. All who see you will bow before you-such is its power. Your enemies will surrender, your allies swear eternal fealty…”

His breath coming in quick gasps, Cathan laid down his sword, leaning it against the altar. He could see nothing now, nothing but the Miceram, and the power it could grant him. He imagined himself sitting on a golden throne as men and women from all over the empire knelt at his feet-priests, warriors, merchants and nobles all waiting to do his bidding. Everything he had ever dreamed of could be his: wealth and might. All he had to do was take the crown.

Smiling, he lifted the Miceram from the altar.

It was cool to the touch, heavier than he’d imagined-not gilded bronze, but solid gold. He weighed it in his hands a moment, then bent forward, pressing his lips to its central ruby-a gem so precious, it could buy a lifetime of comfort. His gem. Reverently, he lifted the Miceram, raising it toward his brow-

Suddenly, he stopped. His reflection, warped by the crown’s curves, stared back at him from its golden surface. He saw his own eyes, wide and wild. There was madness in them, a crazed streak he hadn’t seen since the dark days when he’d forsaken the god, before his world had changed. Before Beldyn.

Slowly, he lowered the crown again. “No.”

He’d thought the ghost would say something, implore him to put it on. Instead, Pradian remained silent, watching him intensely. With an effort of will, Cathan tore his gaze from the crown and shook his head, stepping back.

“Beldyn asked me to come with him because he believed I was loyal,” he said. “I won’t betray him.”

Pradian stared. “You would give up an empire?”

“The empire isn’t mine to give,” Cathan replied. “Beldyn is the Lightbringer. The Miceram belongs to him. Now take me to him, and no more games.”

The white light in the specter’s eyes flared, and for a moment Cathan feared he’d chosen wrongly, that Pradian would attack him for his impudence. Instead, though, the ghost turned aside, and glided toward the wall behind the altar. Sighing, Cathan followed him.

“The true Kingpriest must have his subjects’ love,” the ghost said as they reached the wall. He turned, fixing Cathan with his colorless gaze. “Only a man who inspires such devotion is worthy of the Crown of Power. Remember this.”

Pradian was gone, so suddenly his image remained burned on Cathan’s eyelids. Before he could wonder about the apparition’s disappearance, however, a soft click came from the wall before him. He looked and saw a crack had opened in the wall, glowing golden to match the crown. Now, as he watched, it widened and lengthened until it defined a doorway. It flared brightly, and the stone within it disappeared, revealing a shadowed passage beyond.

Holding his breath, Cathan stepped through the opening. On the other side was a small chamber, hewn from the living rock. On its far end was a simple shrine to Paladine, surmounted by the platinum triangle and dozens of white candles. Spectral, white flames flickered on each taper, without consuming them. Before the shrine, a body lay in repose: Beldyn, his robes dirt-smudged and flecked with blood. His face was white, his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling slowly.

Surrounding him were the legion of dead priests.

They filled the room, dozens of them, staring down at his motionless form. Then, sensing Cathan’s presence, they turned, ancient sinews creaking. Their empty eye sockets seemed to stare right through him, utterly black. The stench of perfumed decay hung heavy in the room, half-choking him. He froze, his spine turning to ice, as he realized he’d left his sword leaning against the altar. All he had was the crown and his bare hands. If the corpses attacked him, they would rip him apart.

They did no such thing. Instead, seeing the crown in his hands, they bowed their heads and backed away, clearing a path to Beldyn.

Cathan stared at them, his nerves jangling. Cold sweat trickled down his back. Swallowing, he stepped forward, carrying the Miceram to the shrine where Beldyn lay.