Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Three days passed, and still Beldyn did not wake.

The rumors began to spread. Some said the Lightbringer was dead, others that he had fled Govinna after Lady Ilista’s funeral. Tavarre tried his best to silence such gossip, but it would have been easier to dam the Edessa. Once the tales got out, they spread like the Longosai and just as dangerous, too. The sentries on the city’s walls began to talk, casting anxious glances back at the Pantheon. Their morale was flagging, and Tavarre could only watch it happen. Even the rumors that cut closest to the truth-that the monk had withdrawn to commune with the god-drained the hope out of Govinna’s defenders.

The desertions mounted.

Two young men posted by the city’s western gate snuck away from their posts in the predawn gloom. Their replacements found that stretch of the wall unguarded when they arrived to relieve the pair, and after a furious search the two turned up in a tavern, half-drunk on raw wine. Tavarre punished them severely, stripping them naked and forcing them to prostrate themselves before each of the city gatehouses. As the day wore on, though, more and more sentries quit their posts-more than thirty desertions by sunset. Tavarre couldn’t bring himself to blame his men. They were trapped, outmatched. They had lost Durinen and Ossirian both, and now, seemingly, the Lightbringer as well. It was a wonder anyone remained on the battlements by the following night’s end. Still, many did, the light of belief shining in their eyes. Their watchword became uso dolit-the god will provide-and they spoke it over and over, awaiting Beldyn’s return.

The rash of desertions continued through the third day, the ranks atop the wall dwindling every hour. That wasn’t the worst of it, though, for that morning, an hour after dawn, a party of outriders came thundering out of the mists, galloping up to the southern gates and shouting to be let in. Riddled with arrows-two, without Beldyn’s healing touch to aid them, died later that day from their wounds-they reported the news Tavarre dreaded hearing: the Scatas were breaking their camp and sharpening their blades, awaiting the command to march.

“It gets worse,” said the lead scout, wincing against the pain of a shaft he’d taken through one wrist. “They’ve built a ram. Cut down a big ironwood, they did, an’ put ‘er on wheels, with a mantlet to cover. ‘Twill sure move slow, but it looks strong enough.”

Govinna’s gates were mighty and had never fallen, not even in the worst of the Trosedil. But everything happened for the first time, sometime, Tavarre knew.

“Some of my officers are counseling surrender,” he told Cathan that evening, as the sky outside Beldyn’s bedchamber darkened to star-flecked black. It was a moonless night- Solinari would not rise for hours yet, and Lunitari had just set-and the fire that crackled in the room’s great hearth couldn’t fully stave off the chill. “Better to yield the city than see it burn, they say.”

Cathan sat at Beldyn’s bedside. He’d barely moved in days, sleeping in a chair in the room’s corner, his sword across his knees. His eyes narrowed as he studied the baron’s troubled face.

“You’re not seriously considering it, though. Right?”

Frowning, Tavarre looked away. “A few of us must flee, if we want to live.”

“Flee where?” Cathan pressed. “There’s nowhere left to run-except the wilds, and winter’s coining. One good blizzard, and the Scatas won’t have to look for us. The storm will do their work for them.”

Still, when Tavarre left again, returning to the wall with resignation-hardened eyes, Cathan found himself lingering over the idea of retreat. If the soldiers took the city-and they would-then he and the baron were both dead. If the Scatas didn’t kill them where they stood, they would find their doom at the executioner’s sword. He pictured his own head, dipped in tar and spiked above Govinna’s gates, and felt sick. He was sure, too, that a worse fate awaited Beldyn.

Not that he’d notice, he thought bitterly, looking at the bed.

The trance had left a haunted mark on the Lightbringer. He had always been slender, but three days’ starvation had left him gaunt, his cheekbones standing out sharply beneath his sunken eyes. Cathan hadn’t been able to get him to take any food, though he had wet the monk’s lips with a cloth soaked in watered wine. Still, despite his wasted state, he showed no sign of discomfort. His expression remained peaceful, as though he were enjoying some pleasant dream. At least he’ll die happy, Cathan thought with a grimace.

His gaze drifted across the room, to the Miceram on its pedestal. It gleamed in the hearthglow, its rubies glinting with reflected starlight. He’d looked at it enough, these past three days, so it seemed an old friend. When he closed his eyes, he could picture every engraving, every scratch, every little dent. He had counted the gems’ facets, noted their tiny flaws, learned which ones were wine-red and which leaned toward tawny. Looking at it, though, was all he ever did. Not once since he’d brought it here had he touched it.

Now he rose, knees popping, and walked to where it lay. Standing over it, he felt an ache inside him, like he hadn’t felt since the fane, when he’d fought off the urge to put on the crown. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to put the temptation out of his mind.

“You’ll lose without it, you know,” said a voice he recognized.

He gasped, opening his eyes as he whipped around. There, standing-or rather, floating-beside the hearth was Pradian. A knowing smile lit his face as he glided forward, the firelight, making him glow like a cloud at sunset. He made no shadow on the carpeted floor as he went to where the crown lay.

“You,” Cathan said. “Damn it, what did you do to him?”

The ghost shook his head. “That makes no difference now. You need the Miceram’s power to win the coming battle. Without it, you will die-along with everyone else who still stands against the Scatas. You don’t have the strength to hold the defense, and you know it.”

Cathan didn’t answer; he only stared at the crown, aglis-ten in the firelight. He reached out, brushing its surface with his fingertips. It was cold to the touch, but there was something else, too: a strange new sensation, like the crackling air before a summer storm. It made him jerk his hand away, and he stepped back from the pedestal.

“It’s all right, lad,” Pradian said, leaning forward. “It feels strange, I know, but you’ll get used to it. You’ll have to, if you’re going to stop the Scatas.”

“Me, stop the Scatas?” Cathan repeated, then looked at the ghost. “How?”

The spectre only smiled. “I can’t tell you. Only the crown can do that.”

Cathan swallowed, feeling the truth of the specter’s words. He reached out again, and this time nothing stopped him. The crown lifted off the pedestal easily and quickly warmed in his grasp. Cathan turned, raising it high.

“Go on,” Pradian urged, his blank eyes shining. “All you have to do is put it on.”

Cathan held still, the Miceram poised above his own head.

He took a deep breath. Then, with a slow smile, he brought it down…

… and set it on the bed beside Beldyn.

Pradian’s swarthy face had been exultant. Now it changed: “Fool!” he thundered. “The Scatas will take it back to the Lordcity and give it to the false Kingpriest who sits the throne there! Do you want that?”

“No.” Cathan smiled slyly. “Neither do you. It will be the end of your claim to the throne. You’ll have lost your war at last… unless you wake Beldyn.”

The ghost scowled. For a long moment, neither of them moved… then, slowly, Pradian nodded. “Very well,” he said, “but remember what you’re giving up, boy.”

“It was never mine in the first place.”

With one last glare, the ghost turned away, gliding to Beldyn’s bedside. His eyes lingered hungrily on the Miceram, then he bent low, his mouth seeking the Lightbringer’s. Their lips met, and light blazed, the crown’s gold and Beldyn’s silver aflame together. Cathan fell back as the light stung his eyes, throwing up his arm to block it out-and it was gone, and Pradian with it, the ghost vanished into the air.

Beldyn’s eyes flickered open.

Uttering a wordless cry, Cathan ran over and seized the monk’s wasted hand. He pressed it to his cheek, laughing and weeping at the same time. “Palado Calib” he said, and could say nothing more.

Weakly, the Lightbringer smiled. His eyes went to the crown, lying beside him. His free hand reached out, shaking, to brush its central ruby. “Site ceram biriat, abat,” he whispered, then turned to look at Cathan. “Thank you, my friend. I’ve been through a lot, but now I know how I can stop the Scatas. Help me up. Let me show you.”

Beaming, Cathan helped lift him from the bed. Beldyn was weak still, his legs trembling as he got to his feet, but he refused any help. Instead, he nodded to the Miceram, his eyes gleaming in its golden light.

“Bring that,” he said.

Cathan laughed, reaching for the crown-then stopped as a sound broke through the air, jarring him: a clarion war-horn. He listened to it, not believing, then bowed his head with a moan. He knew the call.

They were too late. The battle was beginning.

Sathira swept across the highlands, skimming over the rocky ground. It was easy to keep hidden in the night’s shadows, so she could move swiftly across the land, unimpeded by broken ground, tangled bracken or the white-frothed streams that tumbled through cuts on their way to the thundering Edessa. She flowed over them all, hissing with anticipation. She could smell the monk’s reek on the wind.

At last, she reached the crest of a tor crowned by a tall, mossy boulder. She perched atop the stone, her green eyes flaring as she beheld Govinna. There it was, sprawled on its twin precipices, sparkling with lamplight. In its midst, high-towered and copper-roofed, loomed the Pantheon. Loathing swelled within her at the sight of it. She had failed here, thwarted by the thrice-damned priestess. The pain of her banishment flashed hot in her memory.

The priestess was dead now, though. She could protect Brother Beldyn no more.

Sathira became aware, suddenly, of a commotion to the south. Born of shadows, she could see in darkness as well as day and now beheld a great dust cloud, rising beyond the city. The Kingpriest’s army, she realized, letting out a harsh, hissing laugh. The siege was about to begin. The notion that those on both sides of the coming battle were servants of Paladine-or believed themselves to be-amused her greatly. The dark gods would be pleased indeed.

She crossed the remaining miles to the city in minutes. As she expected, most of Govinna’s sentries had left its north gates, to face the approaching Scat as, hut a few still remained. She killed three of them as she streaked over the wall, barely slowing as she ripped them open with her wicked talons. Hot blood dripped from the battlements as she dove into the narrow streets, leaving the other guards to stare in horror at the tattered remains of their fellows.

Getting into the Pantheon was even easier. Searching, she found an open window and glided through it into the dark halls. Bloodlust surged within her as she slid through the church. The Lightbringer’s stench was everywhere, making it hard to tell which way to go. It was strongest in the cloisters, though, so she headed that way, her claws opening and closing eagerly.

Finally, she came to a closed door, where the stink was stronger than anywhere else. The stench came from within. These were Beldyn’s quarters. She snarled a laugh, then her eyes flashed bright green, and the door blew off its hinges. Splinters rained onto the floor as slipped into the study. Glancing around to make sure the room was empty, she swept through to the bedchamber, where the reek was strongest. She stopped, letting out a furious growl.

The monk was gone.

Frustration boiled within her as she glared around the room. The Lightbringer’s odor lingered over the bed, but no one was in the room. Furious, she streaked about, shredding tapestries and smashing the shrine to Paladine in its corner, then turned and shot back out into the study… and stopped.

She was no longer alone. A young acolyte stood in the doorway, staring at the smoldering ruins of the door. Now his gaze lifted, and the color drained from his face. He froze, his eyes wild with terror.

In an eyeblink she had him, seizing him with claws locked around his neck, pricking his flesh. She shuddered with pleasure. He twitched in her grasp, choking.

“Where is he?” she barked. “The Lightbringer! Where has he gone?”

The boy didn’t answer. She saw, in his wide, frightened eyes that he really didn’t know. She tightened her grip, her talons digging deeper, and he struggled a moment longer then fell limp, blood pouring from the savaged ruins of his throat. He crumpled to the floor when she let him go and lay twitching and bleeding in the dark.

Then she was out the door again, streaking down the hall, her eyes ablaze with emerald fire. Beldyn was out there somewhere. She would find him.

Tavarre’s horn carried beyond Govinna as well as within. Its blare echoed among the hills, where the second and fourth Dromas of the imperial army waited. They had halted a mile south of the city, standing ready, weapons and shields in hand. Torches flickered among their ranks, but for the most part they carried no lights. They needed none to see their goal. Even in the dark night, there was no mistaking Govinna’s towering walls.

The Scatas had little in the way of siege equipment, but what they had was menacing. Dozens of scaling ladders lay on the ground, and at the rear was their great battering ram, a tree trunk three times as wide as a man was tall, hewn from a great ironwood tree. A massive, bronze head in the shape of a clenched fist covered its end, gleaming in the stars’ glow.

Standing near the ram with his officers, Lord Holger glanced up at the trumpet’s blare. His face tightened into a scowl. He’d just been considering sending a man forward to request a parley before the battle was joined. The borderfolk didn’t seem keen on giving him that chance, though. Already he could see swarms of them, lit by blazing braziers, thick atop the curtain wall.

“I don’t believe it,” said Sir Utgar, standing near Holger’s right hand. “They think they can fight us? Are they fools?”

Several other men chuckled, but Holger shook his head. “Worse,” he said. “They have nothing to lose. Loren, my shield.”

The knights exchanged looks as his squire hurried forward. Holger Windsound never wore his shield unless a fight was imminent. He held still as Loren buckled the massive, circular targe to his arm, then reached across his body to rattle his sword in its scabbard.

“What are your orders, milord?” Utgar asked.

Holger drew a deep breath. The freezing air stung his nostrils but kept him alert. He signed the triangle and Kiri-Jolith’s horns, then drew his blade, holding it high.

“Full attack,” he said. “Let’s end this quickly.”

Runners dashed off down the ranks, shouting the order. In reply, the army’s falcon and triangle banners lifted high, and the war drums roared, booming for all to hear. Bellowing in reply, the Scatas raised their swords and spears and began to march, their blue cloaks like pools of ink in the night. Among them, the white and gold robes of clerics flashed, mimicking the stars above.

Holger watched them go while his officers dispersed. Loren brought him his percheron, which blew out its lips at the prospect of battle. Taking the reins, the old Knight swung up into the saddle, spurred his steed, and led his men to war.

Tavarre stood among Govinna’s remaining defenders, glowering as the Scatas started forward. Down the wall, a few more men threw down their weapons and ran-but only a few. The rest stared as the soldiers advanced, as inexorable as a flood. There seemed to be no end of them.

Grimacing, Tavarre sounded the horn again. It was done. The soldiers would take the wall, break the gates. He would die here with his men, and all he had wrought, everything he’d done since his beloved Ailinn died, would come to nothing. He laughed softly to himself-he’d been foolish to think he could defy the Kingpriest.

Bloody well better take a few with me then, he thought. He brought his horn to his lips, letting fly a third ringing blast The men and women atop the wall echoed it, their weapons punching the air.

“For the Lightbringer!” they cried.

The Scatas moved too quickly and too slowly all at once. Marching at such a deliberate pace, they seemed to take forever to cross the last mile to the city, but at the same time Tavarre could scarcely believe it when his archers began to loose their arrows, which flew and fell among the advancing soldiers.

The footmen lost many to that first volley, more than the horsemen had in the first sortie. Packed in close formation, the Scatas had little room to evade the barrage, and the first ranks dropped in waves, leaving those behind to stumble over their bodies. A few raised their shields in time, drawing curses from the men on the wall. Tavarre got one of them with a shot from his crossbow, piercing him through the knee with a steel quarrel. The man staggered and fell. Tavarre let out a whoop, pulling back his string to reload.

Once again, the tenor of the battle changed as the Scatas returned fire. White-fletched arrows peppered the battlements, and Govinna’s defenders began to fall. Beside Tavarre, a woman screamed and sprawled across a merlon as an arrow sliced open her neck. Her blood spattered the baron, but he didn’t even bother to wipe it from his face as he aimed and fired again and again. Another man, just down the wall, spun in place, then fell from the battlements, two shafts lodged in his breast.

So it went, for what seemed like hours, men and women falling on either side, some dead as soon as they hit the ground, others thrashing for a time before falling still or trying to drag themselves away. Tavarre emptied a case of quarrels and yelled for more. Elsewhere along the wall, the archers grabbed enemy arrows and fired them back. It made no difference, however, how many the borderfolk slew. For every soldier who fell, a dozen or more marched behind. They pushed forward relentlessly, stepping over their dead, weathering stones and boiling water as well as the constant rain of arrows.

Now the ladders came, as Tavarre knew they would, pushing forward through the masses of imperial soldiers, their bearers seeking patches of wall to assail. A deep rumble shook the earth, and the enormous ram followed, pushed by fifty men as it made its slow, creaking way toward city’s proud gates.

“Aim for them!” Tavarre barked, waving at the Scatas driving the ram. “The ones with the ladders too! Slow them down!”

The battle’s noise was so fierce that only a handful of borderfolk heard him, but his orders spread nonetheless, from one man to his neighbor, on down the line. The ram quickly shuddered to a halt as half the men pushing it fell, pierced by bowshot and crushed by thrown stones. The same happened to most of the ladder-bearers, but not all-here and there, along the wall’s length, ladders swung upward to thump against the battlements. Soldiers scrambled up, two or three rungs at a time.

Govinna’s defenders acted quickly, grabbing up long-handled military forks and hurrying across the battlements. Thrusting hard, they shoved the ladders back, sending them toppling over. The climbing men screamed as they plummeted, then fell sharply silent as they crashed into the ground.

Victory cries rang out across the wall, but Tavarre didn’t join in. Already, more Scatas were picking up the ladders, and the ram lurched forward again. More arrows and quarrels poured down, and for a second time the attack stopped. The ladders rose and fell again, a second time, a third, but the soldiers kept coming, picking them up and planting them anew in the blood-soaked ground.

Out of bolts again, Tavarre threw away his crossbow and grabbed up a fork. Below, the ram was moving yet again, on toward the city. This time, though, it refused to stop, and the city’s defenders gritted their teeth as it rumbled up to the gatehouse. The gleaming, fist-shaped head smashed into the gates.

Tavarre winced, feeling the crunch of the impact beneath his feet, and watched as the Scatas backed the ram away again, ducking beneath the continuing deluge of arrows, then surged forward another time, smashing the great tree into the city’s doors. Tavarre shut his eyes, a cold feeling running through him as he wondered if he’d just heard splintering. Another few blows like that, and legendary or not, the gates would come down. After that…

He glanced at the Pantheon, his mouth twisting. If only he’d taken the Micerarn, rather than leaving it for Beldyn. He wasn’t sure what difference the crown would have made, but still, anything would be better than standing here, waiting for death.

Uso dolit, his men had said, when their fellows deserted. The god will provide. Tavarre laughed bitterly at their blind faith, gripping his sword as the ladders rose again. “Well,” he muttered, “the god had better damn well hurry up.”