Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  “I could order the city gates shut,” he said, “and I’ll put more men on the roads, watching for trouble. If anyone tries to ride on the city, we’ll know.”

  “Do so,” the Little Emperor said, “and be quick about it. Report back to me when you’re done.”

  With a curt nod, the captain turned and headed back down the stairs into the Pantheon. When he was gone, Durinen turned back to the city, shining with rivers of tiny lights beneath the darkening sky. Govinna’s walls had never been breached, even at the end of the Trosedil. Once the gates were shut, the bandits would never get in.

  He shook his head, leaning against parapet’s iron rail, and wondered why that common wisdom didn’t make him feel any better.

  * * * * *

  The answer, of course, was that the bandits were already in the city and had been for days.

  They had gathered in a wooded dell near Abreri, a town not much bigger than Luciel, now all but emptied by the plague. A dozen bands, each the size of Lord Tavarre’s, answered the call, and their leaders bent their knees to the local lord, a burly, grizzled man named Ossirian who had spoken to the rabble from atop a mossy boulder, explaining his plan. The Night of White Roses was near, and the faithful were flocking to Govinna to observe the rites at the Pantheon. Rather than storming the city—a fool’s errand, with only five hundred men under his command—Ossirian meant to take it by surprise.

  The bandits, then, hadn’t set out in a large group, or even in their smaller bands, but rather in little gangs, none more than six men. They had made their way north to Govinna, disguised as pilgrims, their cheeks smudged with soot in remembrance of the dragonfire Huma had faced in his last battle. The first had entered the city three days before the holy night, and others followed, a few every hour. By the time the captain’s orders reached the gatekeepers that evening, it was too late. When the city’s massive gates rumbled shut, they sealed Ossirian and his men inside.

  Each gang of bandits had its own orders, a task in the coming plan of attack. Some waited in key places, ready to cause distractions for the city guard. Others—Ossirian and the other leaders among them—entered the Pantheon with the pilgrims, slipping past the guards in the pressing mobs of the faithful, and took up positions within the temple, waiting for the signal. Still others lurked at crossroads and courtyards, watching for trouble.

  Cathan was one of these last, and he wasn’t happy about it at all. He fidgeted as he crouched in the mouth of an alley, looking out into an empty plaza. He pulled his hood low, tugging at his sleeves. For the third time in a minute, his hand reached beneath his cloak to the hilt of his sword.

  Huddled in the shadows beside him, Embric Sharpspurs snorted. “You might try being a little more obvious,” he muttered. “A guardsman still might not notice you, provided he was blind and an idiot”

  “What guardsman?” Cathan snorted, gesturing at the courtyard. It was deserted and had been since well before sunset. They weren’t even on the right side of town. The plaza was on Govinna’s eastern hill, away from the temples. When the attack happened, the trouble would be on the other side of the river.

  “We’ve been here how many hours, and what have we seen? One mangy cat. I bet there isn’t a single guardsman in this entire half of the town.” He shook his head angrily. “We’re going to miss it all.”

  “Suits me,” Embric replied, shrugging. “If I can get through this without drawing my sword, count me glad.”

  Cathan ground his teeth. He’d left his sister in Luciel, traveled all this way, spent night after night training at swordplay— for what? To stand in an alley while all the fighting happened elsewhere? It made him want to spit. I should leave, he thought. Let Embric stay here—if I hurry, maybe I can get to the Pantheon in time to join Lord Tavarre and the others… .

  Before he could do more than push to his feet, though, a sound cut through the night, echoing across the river from the temples: a chorus of long, low notes, blown by priests on curving dragon horns. It was the traditional call to the believers, summoning them to the liturgy in Huma’s honor—but it was something else, at the same time: the prearranged signal the bandits had been waiting for, all across the city.

  Hearing the blare of the dragon horns, Cathan cursed. He was too late. The attack had begun.

  * * * * *

  As it happened, the chaos started on the east hill only a few blocks from Cathan and Embric. While the horns were still sounding, a gang of bandits used axes to break down the doors of one of the city’s great wineries, then laid into the massive storage tuns with their hatchets, flooding the area with Govinnese claret. Moments later, another mob set fire to a clothworks across the river. Along the gorge’s edge, men with knives darted from one great winch to the next, cutting the ropes that held up the river-lifts. Baskets and wooden platforms fell like autumn apples, splashing into the Edessa or smashing the boats and docks below. In the north, three mountain-sized brigands laid into one of Govinna’s most beautiful monuments, the Fountain of Falling Stars, with heavy sledges, smashing it to rubble in less than a minute. Those few true pilgrims who remained in the streets panicked, fleeing through the narrow streets and crying for help.

  Faced with such sudden, random destruction, the town guards reacted as Ossirian had hoped—with utter confusion and disarray. They scattered in every direction, their numbers thinning as they tried to respond to every incident at once. The bandits refused to give them a fair fight, though, running away rather than standing their ground, leading the guards into alleys where more of their number waylaid them, surrounding the watchmen with crossbows and swords. Most of the guards surrendered. Knights and even Scatas might fight on against unfavorable odds, but Govinna’s sentries valued their lives much more than their honor. Caught flat-footed, they threw down their arms.

  Things happened just as quickly within the Pantheon. The moment the call to prayer sounded, Ossirian, who had been kneeling in the hall of worship with the rest of the faithful, rose and raised to his lips a horn of his own—made of a ram’s horn, not a dragon’s. At its harsh blast, more than fifty men rose, throwing off their cloaks and drawing swords. Most had positioned themselves near the guards within the temple, and overcame them easily, setting blades to throats before the watchmen could react. A few scuffles broke out, and two guards and a bandit died, but for most there was little bloodshed.

  Ossirian had the advantage, but he knew it wouldn’t last. The city’s defenses were in a shambles, yet it wouldn’t be long before those guards who remained regrouped and tried to counterattack. He turned to Tavarre and the other lords, barking orders.

  “Seal the doors! Find Durinen! Half a thousand imperial falcons to the man who brings me the Little Emperor!”

  The bandits scrambled to comply. Some rushed to the church’s apse, barricading its doors with pews, fonts, and whatever else they could find. The rest spread out through the Pantheon, surging through its halls as clerics fled, sandals flapping, or cowered, begging for mercy. They moved from vestiary to antechamber, copy room to meditation hall, breaking down doors when they found them locked. Ossirian himself led the main charge up the stairs of the Patriarch’s Tower, shoving priests aside as he sought the unmistakable, huge bearded form of Durinen.

  The Little Emperor’s servants had barricaded his private apartments at the tower’s top, but the wooden doors didn’t stand long against the bandits’ long-handled axes. Splinters scattered across rich carpets as Ossirian and his men broke through, and the bandits pushed past the trembling acolytes into the patriarch’s study, his bedchamber, the innermost sanctum where his personal, golden altar glimmered with candlelight. They were all empty.

  “Damn it!” Ossirian roared, his gray-bearded face livid. He grabbed Tavarre’s arm, pulling the baron to him. “He must be someplace!”

  Tavarre shook his head. “He isn’t. We’ve looked everywhere.”

  Snarling a vile curse, Ossirian swung his sword at the altar, scattering candlewax everywhere. They had fa
iled. The Little Emperor had escaped.

  * * * * *

  In a courtyard near the Edessa’s western bank, amid a patch of yellow-flowered bushes, stood a bronze statue of a rearing horse. Once a sculpture of Theorollyn had sat astride it, but the church had torn it down and melted it long ago. The courtyard was little used. The folk of Govinna considered it an unlucky place, and it was deserted most of the time, except for occasional gangs of children who took turns climbing up and riding the false Kingpriest’s steed. Thus tonight no one heard the soft crack that came from the statue nor saw the air shimmer around it, as it might in summer’s heat.

  The surface of the pedestal rippled for a moment as the magic that affected it lifted away, then a section of stone flickered and faded, becoming an open hole leading into darkness. A man poked his shaven head out through the opening and glanced about, then nodded and climbed out, sword in hand. The captain of the guard looked around the courtyard more carefully, then turned to the statue and hissed a soft word.

  Durinen scowled at the distant clamor of fighting as he emerged from the statue. He was livid—with the bandits for daring to attack the Pantheon, with his guards for letting it happen, and with himself for not seeing it coming. His only satisfaction came from having outwitted Ossirian and his men, who would be scouring the temple for him, looking in vain, even now. A wolfish smile tightened within the thicket of his beard.

  The bandits were well organized, that was certain. Durinen had read Rudanio’s Shapes of War and knew good tactics when he saw them. They had made a mistake, though, assuming they knew everything there was to know about the Pantheon. It was a reasonable belief, he supposed, since the lords who led the brigands had spent enough time in the temple, but it sheltered some secrets even they didn’t know. The most important—today, at least—was a particular old wine-cask in the cellar beneath the refectory. It, too, was an illusion, like the side of the riderless horse’s pedestal; in fact, it was a doorway to a passage beneath the city’s streets. Now, as Ossirian was cursing in his tower, the Little Emperor looked back at the Pantheon and chuckled with small satisfaction.

  “We should cross the river, Worship,” offered the captain. “There will be less trouble that way.”

  Durinen considered this, then nodded. If they could get to the east gates and out of the city, they could find a place where he could be safe until the guards recaptured the city.

  “Go on, then,” he bade.

  The captain led the way, his bald head glistening as he crept from one lane to the next, constantly watching to make sure the way was clear. Finally they reached a narrow bridge, lined with pear trees, that arched above the Edessa. On the far side, the east hill looked quieter than the west, though smoke still rose above the rooftops here and there. Kissing his sword for luck, the captain darted across the span, keeping down as he went. Durinen hurried after—though with his bulk, it was hard to stay low—and they reached the far side together. They ducked into a doorway for a moment while the captain made sure no one had seen them, then stepped out again, darting through the streets of Govinna’s eastern quarter.

  * * * * *

  “Sounds like things are quieting down,” hissed Embric, glancing west. “Think it worked?”

  “How should I know?” Cathan snapped. His mood had grown steadily darker as the shouts and clashes of swords rang out across the city. They still hadn’t seen a single person. “The bloody Pantheon could be burning and we’d only find out if the wind—hammer and lance!”

  Embric looked up sharply at Cathan’s sudden oath. He caught his breath. They were no longer alone. Two other figures had emerged from the mouth of a street across the plaza, and stood by a cistern, resting while they caught their breaths. One was a bald swordsman in a fine suit of scale, but Cathan and Embric only glanced at him, staring instead at the other man. He didn’t have his emerald diadem, but even so there was no mistaking the man. Ossirian had described him in detail, back in Abreri—the huge, bearish body, the long, braided beard.

  “Branchala’s balls,” Cathan breathed.

  Embric nodded silently.

  The Little Emperor stooped over the cistern, scooping water to his mouth with a cupped hand while the swordsman looked around. Cathan pulled back deeper into the shadows, reaching for his sword again. This time he didn’t let go.

  “Think we can take them?” he asked.

  Embric shrugged, reaching for his own weapon. “Have to try. Ossirian wants him caught.”

  “Right, then.”

  They paused a moment longer, tensing, then bolted from cover, swords ringing clear of their scabbards. Durinen started at the sound, his mouth dropping open as he stumbled back from the cistern. He cast about, looking for a way to escape as the bald man raised his sword, stepping in front of him to head off Cathan and Embric.

  It was two against one, but even so, Cathan knew they were outclassed from the moment the jeweled sword came out of nowhere to parry Embric’s first wild slash. The guard captain was a veteran fighter and could have given Lord Tavarre a challenge. Against two untrained bandits, he barely needed to expend any effort. He ducked easily under Embric’s return swing, stepped sideways, and twisted, his blade flicking hard against Cathan’s to turn it aside. The ring of steel on steel echoed off the walls surrounding the plaza, and Cathan’s hand went numb for a moment. The captain spun to follow through, kicking him in the stomach and sending him stumbling back.

  Alone, Embric fought frantically, giving ground as he went on the defensive. The captain came on, his mouth a firm line as his sword flashed again and again and again. Somehow, Embric managed to block the attacks, but each parry came slower than the last, and one stroke left a red line across his face. Blood beaded from the cut, dripping down Embric’s face. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, casting about while the captain stepped back, looking for an opening.

  “Cathan!” he shouted, terrified. “Help!”

  Cathan, though, was down on one knee, still trying to get his breath back and could only watch as the captain resumed his attack. The bald man’s mouth twisted into a wolfish smile as he lunged, stabbing at Embric’s groin. Frantically, Embric moved to parry—then swore suddenly as the swordsman reversed the feint, twisting and raising his blade to drive it through leather and flesh.

  It happened so fast, Cathan didn’t realize at first what had happened. It was only when the captain jerked his bloody sword free and Embric sank to his knees, his tunic dark under his right arm, that he saw. Embric fought to get back to his feet, knowing already it was too late.

  With cold efficiency, the captain’s sword flicked out and cut Embric’s throat.

  An inarticulate cry erupted from Cathan’s mouth as his friend collapsed, the cobblestones awash with red beneath him. A star of rage exploded in his head, and he forgot the Little Emperor altogether, bolting toward the captain with his sword slashing the air. The bald man fell back a pace from the storm of savage blows, but he turned each slash aside, sidestepping and circling—and suddenly lost his footing as he slipped in Embric’s blood.

  The captain’s eyes widened as he staggered, flinging out his arms to keep his balance. The predatory smile vanished from his lips as, maddened with grief, the young bandit brought his sword down with a shout. Despite his rage, Cathan remembered his training. The last four inches of the blade struck the man’s shaven head, hacking through his skull with a sickening crunch. The captain blinked, then his eyes rolled over and he crumpled, yanking Cathan’s sword from his hand.

  Cathan’s hands shook as he stumbled back, each short breath a stab of pain. He had never killed a man before— except Tancred, and that had been mercy, not violence. He stared at the two bodies sprawled on the cobbles for a long moment, then turned away and vomited.

  He was sobbing and wiping his mouth with his sleeve when he remembered the Little Emperor. With a jolt he turned, expecting Durinen to be gone, but the priest was still there, backed up against the wall and gaping at the captain’s corpse
. He looked up, his eyes meeting Cathan’s, and turned to run.

  It was pointless. His strides were long, but he was a heavy man, and Cathan was young and quick. Any borderman who had ever seen a mountain cat fight a bear and win would have nodded in recognition as Cathan pounced on the hulking patriarch, knocking him sideways then dragging him down onto the ground. Cathan landed on top of Durinen, and his fist slammed into the bearded face before the Little Emperor could recover—once, twice, three times, feeling the nose shatter, teeth splinter, blood spray. Durinen cried out, trying to rise, but a fourth punch hit his cheek, slamming his head back against the paving stones, and he went silent and still at once.

  Cathan knelt beside the patriarch, not moving for a long time. Finally he leaned forward, his face gray, rolled Durinen onto his stomach, and tore a long strip off the fine, silvery robes. He used it to tie the man’s wrists together, tight enough that the cloth dug into his flesh. Then he bound the Little Emperor’s feet and pushed himself to his feet. He stopped at the captain’s body long enough to jerk his sword free, then—with one last, sickened glance at Embric—sprinted off toward the river, looking for help.

  * * * * *

  Lord Ossirian looked from Cathan to Tavarre. “He’s one of yours?”

  The baron nodded proudly. “Yes, lord.”

  They stood within the Pantheon, in the patriarch’s private antechamber, adjacent to the main worship hall. It was a plain room, all of stone, with a silver shrine in the corner, gold-threaded hangings on the walls, and brass lanterns burning in wall-mounted cressets. Durinen sat on the floor in the room’s corner, his face a swollen, bloody mess, flanked by sword-armed bandits. He glowered but didn’t seem apt to move any time soon. Ossirian regarded him, scratching his head. He didn’t seem sure whether to be amused or annoyed that a whelp of a boy, not he, had caught the Little Emperor.

  Finally, though, a smile split his lips, and he clapped Cathan’s shoulder. “My thanks to you, MarSevrin. I promised a reward for this prize, and you shall have it.”