Chosen of the Gods k-1

by Chris Pierson

  Disgusted, he gave the fork one last, useless shove, then fell back. When the first soldier appeared at the top of the ladder, he lunged, thrusting the weapon home. The Scata let out a ghastly shriek as the fork punched through his plumed helm, then toppled backward. Blood sprayed in an arc from his face as he tumbled out of sight. He took the fork with him, wrenching it from the baron’s hands and bearing it with him to his doom.

  Furious, Tavarre stumbled back, yanking his sword from its scabbard with a noisy ring. The red rage of battle flashed before his eyes.

  The second soldier up the ladder died as well, and the third, each impaled on the weapons of Tavarre’s men. The fourth was ready, however, and managed to duck a clumsy thrust, grabbing his attacker’s fork and yanking it forward, dragging its wielder with it. The man, a youth in the colors of Govinna’s guardsmen, stumbled forward and caught the soldier’s sword through his stomach. Glaring from behind his helm, the Scata climbed up onto the battlements, swinging his bloody blade to clear a space for his fellows.

  Moments later, that fourth soldier was writhing on the catwalk, laid open from breast to groin by Tavarre’s own blade, but the damage was done: dozens of the Scatas were up, clambering over the merlons to take his place. Swords dancing, they pushed outward, cutting down the city’s defenders with deadly precision. The borderfolk fought valiantly, but the trained soldiers outmatched them in blade-on-blade battle. Quickly, they gave ground.

  Tavarre roared, laying about with his sword. He shouted curses as he rained down blow after blow, driving the blade through one soldier’s chest, then turning to hack into another man’s knee. The soldier cried out, stumbling, and the baron’s blade opened his throat. Blood splashed the stones.

  Another Scata pushed forward, lashing out and getting past Tavarre’s hurried parry. He flinched away, but a hot pain shot across his cheek. Another scar, to join those he’d already earned. Laughing carelessly, he slapped the soldier’s sword away with his own, then grabbed the collar of the man’s cloak and spun, hurling the man off the wall. The Scata screamed all the way down to the cobbled street below.

  Rage wasn’t enough, though. Even as Tavarre fought, his men died around him, the one to his left clutching at sickly bulges trying to escape his slashed stomach, the one to his right with his hands covering a face soaked in blood. So it went: Govinna’s defenders melted away, while more and more Scatas gained the top of the wall.

  Tavarre roared with incoherent fury. It was over. He’d lost.

  “Palado” he prayed, splitting a Scata’s helm, “mas pirhtas calsud. Adolas brigim paripud…”

  Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought…

  Before he could finish the prayer, however, the wall suddenly lurched beneath his feet, leaping so violently that he stumbled against the merlons, nearly tumbling over. Elsewhere on the wall, bandits and soldiers alike staggered, some falling to their knees as the ground leaped beneath them. Others weren’t so lucky, and pitched over the side.

  At first, Tavarre thought it was the battering ram, finally bashing down the gates. Looking down, however, he saw that wasn’t so. The ram was away from the wall, its pushers staring in shock toward the city. He frowned. If the Scatas hadn’t shaken the wall, what had?

  Then a borderman beside him cried out, jabbing his finger back toward the Pantheon. “Look! The tower!”

  A Scata came at him just then, but Tavarre stopped him, hammering him in the face with the pommel of his sword. As the man crumpled, senseless, the baron glanced back, to where the bordennan had pointed. He sucked in a cold breath, a weight settling inside him. There, atop the Pantheon’s tallest spire, stood Beldyn.

  Tavarre shuddered, understanding even as the Iightbringer turned his hand palm-up, shouting a second time. “Pridud!”

  The gates shivered, deep cracks rippling through them. The wall bucked again, bordermen and Scatas alike crying out as they stumbled against one another. A few continued to pursue the fight, but now most of them halted, all eyes turning to stare up at Beldyn. Those nearest the gates began to edge back. Below, the attackers did the same, some shying away warily while others-including most of the ram-pushers-simply wheeled and fled.

  Tavarre gaped at the white-gleaming figure on the tower’s top. High above, Beldyn’s fingers curled into a fist. “No!” the baron cried. “You’re going to-”

  “PRIDUD!”

  For the third time, the wall shuddered even harder. The gates twisted, bulging outward for a sickening instant. A cyclone of white light swirled around them. Then, with a blinding glare and a roar, they exploded. They were gates no longer, a mass of torn wood and metal, splinters raining down on either side of the wall. Bits of wreckage flew outward, pelting the road and smashing the cobbles. A piece of rubble slammed into the mighty, fist-headed ram, cracking it in half and sending it tumbling end over end. The debris kept falling, for minutes.

  Tavarre stared numbly. Around him, a few of the Scatas moved in, their blades leveled at his chest and throat. He hardly noticed, even when they grabbed his own sword by the quillons and yanked it from his grasp. Below, other Scatas shouted victory cries as they poured through the hole where Govinna’s mighty gates had been.

  “Gods’ blood,” Tavarre murmured, staring up at the Patriarch’s Tower, where Beldyn still shone like a silvery beacon. Tears sheeted his eyes, turning the Lightbringer into a blur as the Scatas knocked him to his knees. “Pilofiro, what have you done?”

  Within the Pantheon’s dim halls, Sathira shrieked with pain as the wave of holy power struck her. It tore at her shadowy form, and for a moment she feared it would rip her apart, send her howling back to the shelter of the emerald, as had happened when the First Daughter had defeated her. It didn’t, though: the pain was excruciating, but it passed. The spell’s focus was elsewhere, far from the temple, so the torment abated, leaving her reeling and shivering in its wake.

  Hissing hatefully, the demon shut her eyes, seeking the source of the godly force. It took her a while-the echoes of the agonizing blast still lingered-but after a moment she found what she was looking for. The pain still burned, like a smoldering cinder in her mind. She growled, focusing. Where was it? Where?

  Her eyes slitted open, looking up. A cackling laugh erupted from her, a sound that had nothing to do with mirth. The Lightbringer was above her.

  With an eager snarl, she swept on through the church, bound for the tower.

  Cathan watched everything, appalled, as the last of Govinna’s defenders either fell or surrendered. Most gave up their swords as the Kingpriest’s army enveloped them. A few held out, however, fighting on, despite the fact that they had already lost. One by one, their flashing blades fell still, swallowed by the press of soldiers on all sides. Sickened, Cathan wondered how many of those last brave few were men he knew. Were any of them from Luciel? Was Lord Tavarre one of them?

  The Scatas were pouring into the city now, surging through its winding, narrow streets, the light of their torches spilling down the lanes. More and more they came, no end to them, thousands strong. He could hear their shouts of triumph, the conquering hymns of the priests who walked among them. Closer and closer they came, bearing down on the Pantheon. They would tear the place apart if they had to, he knew. Before much longer had passed-and before they could flee to a safe place-the soldiers would be surging up the tower. He eyed the stairs. They were tight, and their curve might make it easy for him to fight, but even so, he couldn’t hold out forever. They’d kill him, take Beldyn, and that would be it. Everything they’d fought for would end.

  He turned to the monk, stricken. Beldyn leaned on the balustrade, shoulders bowed, gazing down at the advancing soldiers. White light sparkled around him, but within the aura he was clearly exhausted. He looked haggard, many times his years, and he slumped further, nearly toppling over the rail. The inexplicable magic he’d worked had spent him, as it had at the bridge. He had no strength left.

  “What have you done?” Cathan breathed.


  Beldyn turned, shuddering with fatigue. His eyes were blue suns, terrible to behold. “What I had to,” he said, his voice breaking. “I saw my fate, while I lay in that trance. The enemy must come to me. It is what the god intends.”

  Cathan stared, aghast. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “You mean Paladine meant for us to lose?”

  “No, my friend.” Beldyn said with his smile returning, “but the battle cannot be won with swords. The answer is in your hands.”

  Frowning, Cathan looked down. He still held the Miceram in his grasp.

  “Site ceram biriat, abat,” Beldyn said. “It’s time for you to crown me.”

  Cathan swallowed, turning the crown in his hands. Its rubies shimmered from within. A giddy laugh burst from his lips.

  “I’ve never done a coronation before,” he said. “I don’t know how.”

  “There’s nothing to know,” Beldyn replied, easing himself onto one knee. “Put it on my head and name me Kingpriest. The rest is just ritual claptrap, anyway.”

  Again, Cathan hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and raised the Miceram. He held it above Beldyn’s head, heavy in his hands, and shivered. The wind had turned frigid, all of a sudden.

  “Beldyn,” he spoke, then stopped, shaking his head. “Beldinas. In Paladine’s name, and with this crown, I hereby-”

  Then, suddenly, his voice died in his throat. Two green eyes had appeared, burning slits just behind Beldyn’s back. He stared, horror swelling in his breast as his gaze locked with Sathira’s. The demon laughed, a low, growling sound that cut through Cathan’s spine.

  “Too late,” she snarled, and lunged.

  Cathan was quicker, though. Dropping the crown with a clatter, he shoved Beldyn aside. The monk grunted as he sprawled across the tower’s roof, but he was out of the way. Raising his sword, Cathan stepped in front of the demon.

  She slowed, glaring, then laughed again and lashed out, swiping at the blade with her talons. With a horrible rending sound the weapon burst apart, scattering tangled fragments everywhere. As Cathan stared at the useless hilt in his hand, she brought her sinuous, shadowy arm down on him.

  White stars burst in his head, and fire blossomed as her claws furrowed his chest, ripping through his armor like wet parchment. It wasn’t a death blow, although he cried out, tumbling in a heap, the wind exploding from his lungs. Sathira glided after him, cackling, talons outstretched-

  And flinched, letting out a hiss of pain.

  Cathan stared from where he lay, his eyes wide. She glared at him from a few feet away, her eyes aglow with loathing, but though she clearly wanted to kill him, something stopped her. He furrowed his brow, then looked down and saw what it was.

  Whether her claws had done it or whether it was from the force of hitting the ground, the little leather pouch he used to hold slingstones had burst open, spilling out the pieces of the holy sign he’d smashed after Tancred died. He stared at the bits of white porcelain, fanned out upon the rooftop, then glanced up at the demon. She stared back, her green eyes blazing with hate, then turned with a hiss and swept toward Beldyn.

  “No, you don’t,” Cathan said, and threw one of the pieces at her.

  It struck her in the back, bouncing off as if she were solid flesh, rather than shadowstuff. Sathira gave a terrible scream, writhing in agony, and he wasted no time, pelting her with more bits of the holy sign until she fell back, crumpled in on herself, and shrank into little more than a ragged cloud of blackness with two motes of green fire suspended in its midst. All the time she shrieked curses upon him, upon Beldyn, upon Paladine himself. Cathan didn’t let up until he’d run out of pieces, and they lay scattered about her shapeless, howling form.

  On the far side of the roof, Beldyn rose to his feet. He regarded Sathira for a long moment, helpless and seething, then went and picked up the Miceram. Cathan watched, holding his breath, as Beldyn turned back to the demon.

  “Scugam oporud,” he spoke softly.

  Demon begone.

  With that, he set the Crown of Power on his head.

  Sathira froze, her eyes flaring wide. A terrible shriek, the worst yet, like metal tearing a hole in the sky, erupted from her shadow mouth. Beldyn cried out too, howling in pain and ecstasy. He flung his arms out, the Miceram blazing with the fires of dawn.

  And the world filled with light.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  In the years to come, poets wrote that the light that ended the Battle of Govinna came from the heavens, a bright, shining beam streaking down from the firmament. The poets weren’t there, though. To the bordermen and Scatas who were, the light came from atop the patriarch’s spire, rising up into the night-black sky.

  Those closest saw it best, and none was closer than Cathan. He saw the Miceram flare brightly, its glow shifting from red-gold to Beldyn’s brilliant white. Then the light burst forth, engulfing monk and demon alike. Sathira let out a final tormented howl that choked off into silence, and she was gone, destroyed by the crown’s holy power, sobbing back to the deepest pits of the Abyss in burning agony.

  The light did not disappear with her death, however. It burned brighter still, a lance of silver that shot up into the heavens, so high goatherds looked upon it twenty leagues away and wondered what it was. It stayed that way a long time, drawing awestruck stares from soldier and bandit alike as flares of holy power pulsed along its length. Finally, with a watery pealing sound, it burst open, spilling light across the city.

  Cathan flinched as the glow swept over him, expecting it to burn the flesh from his bones, but this radiance was cool, smelling of rain and rose petals. As it bathed him, he felt it ease his mind, driving out despair, fear, rage. His pain- strong where Sathira’s claws had torn into him-faded away. Joy welled up within him, deeper than any he’d felt in his life, even at Wentha’s healing. He wanted to laugh, sing, fling up his arms and shout with bliss.

  The holy power passed, spreading outward through the Pantheon and into Govinna beyond. It overtook the Kingpriest’s forces, stopping them in their tracks, stunned. It flowed from street to street, courtyard to marketplace, through windows and around statues. It leaped across the gap that split the city’s east half from its west and scoured the green roofs of Govinna’s temples, leaving shining copper in its wake. On the curtain wall and beyond, men gaped as it rushed toward them, then flung up their arms when it struck, passing by in a rush, washing over both armies like an eldritch wind.

  It healed as it went, leaving the wounded stirring in its wake, exclaiming in wonder. Men who had lain dying on the ground moments before, their life-blood seeping from ghastly wounds, drew breaths suddenly devoid of pain and rose, their fevered minds calm once more. Flesh mended, bones set straight and true, severed hands and arms appeared anew where bloody stumps had dangled moments before. Even those who had been on death’s hard edge smiled as they rose to their feet, their injuries gone as if they had never existed. When it was over, only the dead remained, scattered on the stony ground, but even they seemed different. Their faces had smoothed, even those who had perished in agony, now at peace with the god.

  The chanting began on the walls, among the borderfolk who had fought in Beldyn’s name, but it spread quickly, clamoring across the city and echoing from the hills. Both sides lent their voices now, joining in a chorus of joy. Never before, in all of Istar’s history, had such a cry arisen, weapons and fists punching the sky as both sides bellowed together: “Cilenfo’ Pilofiro! Babo Sod!”

  The Healer! The Lighibringer! The True Kingpriest!

  The next day, as the turquoise sky dimmed in the east, the plaza outside the Pantheon filled once more. This time, however, it wasn’t only the folk of Govinna who crowded there. Alongside them, blue cloaks flapping in the evening breeze, stood the Scatas of the imperial army. Men who had sought to kill one another only scant hours before now jostled for a better view, looking toward the temple’s broad steps.

  Lord Holger stood at the r
ear of the crowd, Loren at his side. He glanced back at his officers, arrayed behind him, and his moustache twitched with sorrow. There were breaks in their ranks, for not everyone had lived to see the holy light. Sir Utgar and other friends of Holger’s were dead. It would be hard explaining things to the dead men’s families. Holger wasn’t even sure he understood it himself yet.

  Coughing into his gauntleted hand, he stood erect and started across the plaza, the other Knights marching behind. The crowd parted before him, Scatas saluting and bordermen staring as he and the others strode toward the Pantheon. Holger had expected, when he’d ordered the attack yesterday, that he would soon make this very march. At that time, he’d thought it would be to accept the rebels’ surrender. Now, however, he went for a wholly different reason. He went to make peace.

  As the Knights approached the church, a second party emerged from the portico. At its head stood Tavarre of Luciel, his scarred face grave, his mail shirt tattered from the fighting. With him were the other bandit chiefs, men Holger had sworn to hunt down and destroy. Instead, the old Knight stopped on the temple’s steps, bowing deeply to his former enemy. His officers followed suit, then the bordermen repeated the gesture.

  Gravely, Tavarre stepped forward, drawing his dagger from his belt. Holger held his breath, his old campaigner’s instincts sending his hand to his sword, but he held back.

  This was a highland ritual, one the Taoli had performed since their barbarian days. Tavarre tugged off his left glove, set the blade to the palm so bared, and drew it swiftly across his flesh. The baron’s face twitched as blood welled out, bright red, dripping upon the steps. He sheathed the dirk again, extending his injured hand toward Holger.

  “Bos cor purdamo,” he spoke in the church tongue.

  Old woes forgotten.

  Holger paused, and all over the plaza breaths stilled as his hand shifted to his own dagger and drew it out. His gauntlet clattered to the ground as he cut himself in turn.