“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.”
&
nbsp; 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.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The crash of the Scatas’ ram against Govinna’s gates boomed across the city, shaking the steps under Cathan’s feet as he wound his way up the Patriarch’s Tower. Lurching sideways, he threw out his sword arm to anchor himself against the wall. When he had his balance back, he muttered a curse. Beldyn continued to climb before him, untroubled by the trembling ground. He was already disappearing around the stair’s next bend. Grunting, Cathan dashed after him. They were nearly at the top now.
Beldyn paused when they reached the landing leading to the Little Emperor’s chambers, his gaze fixed on the door. The bodies were long gone from the study beyond, as was the blood that had spattered the floor, but the smell of death still lingered, like the after-scent of smoke in a burnt-out ruin. Beldyn put a hand to his brow, then ran it down his face with a shuddering sigh. Cathan said nothing, his own thoughts dark. He looked down at the Miceram, cradled in the crook of his left arm. He’d tried to get Beldyn to put it on, but the monk had declined.
“Not here,” he’d said.
“Where, then?” Cathan had asked.
Beldyn had smiled. “Follow,” was his only reply. And so here they were, leaving the study behind and moving ever upward, toward the tower’s crenellated roof.
The boom of the ram shook the city again as they emerged into open air once more. Cathan stumbled to one knee, nearly dropping the crown as he saved himself from sprawling into the balustrade, then rose beside the monk. The night wind whirled about them, whipping at Beldyn’s robes and making his long hair whirl as he looked south across the city. In the Miceram’s metallic glow, his face seemed made of burnished gold, and his eyes flashed as he beheld the battlefield below.
Cathan had seen the Kingpriest’s army before, on the highroad south of LucieL, but the sea of torch flames and star-flashing armor beyond Govinna’s walls awed him. The enemy seemed to go on forever, particularly compared with the thin line of defenders atop the wall. The siege ladders rose and fell, and the ram rumbled back from the gates. The huge fist on its end shone with fireglow as it pulled away, paused, then rushed forward again, it
s impact loud enough to rattle windows and send shingles sliding off of roofs all over Govinna. Still the gates did not give, and the ram hauled back yet again.
Swallowing, he turned to Beldyn, raising the crown. “Will you please put this on now?”
The monk met his gaze, smiling. His eyes were stranger than usual, silver sparks dancing across their surfaces like bugs on water. “Not yet,” he said, shaking his head. “There is still something I must do.”
Bowing his head, he clasped his sacred medallion, squeezing it until his fingers turned white. His lips moved silently, forming words Cathan didn’t recognize. When he opened his eyes again, the air around him had already begun to sparkle with silver light. His mouth a hard line, he flung his free hand outward, toward the walls.
Cathan gasped. He knew the gesture. He’d seen it before. In his mind, he was at the Bridge of Myrmidons, watching as the Scatas slew Sir Gareth and his men. Beldyn had performed the same ritual then. Now the air about him sang with phantom chimes.
“No,” Cathan breathed, his eyes wide. “Are you going to-”
He never finished the question. At that moment, Beldyn’s eyes flared with holy light, and his voice rang out, pure and musical, as he focused his will upon Govinna’s fabled, uncon-quered gates.
“Pridud!” he bellowed.
Break!
Tavarre leaned on his fork, added his weight to that of the three other men who strove to push the ladder down from the wall. Despite their efforts, though, the ladder refused to budge. The Kingpriest’s soldiers had managed to plant it firmly in the body-strewn earth below, and it simply would not move. It shook slightly as the Scatas started up it.
Glancing to either side, Tavarre saw a half-dozen other ladders standing firm against the best efforts of Govinna’s defenders. He spat a vile oath. After six failed assaults, the Scatas would hold back no longer. His forces were crumbling around him, dashing what last, frail hopes he held.
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