Holger returned the gesture in kind, then looked to his men and cleared his throat. Amid the wind’s muttering and the whickering of horses, the riders fell silent. Looking out at them—a sea of wind-weathered faces, watching him expectantly—he raised his voice to speak.
“You will ride north,” he said. “At a fair pace, you’ll reach Govinna by midmorning. When you do, you must assail it at once.”
The riders shifted, nodding. A thousand was too few to capture a city, but they understood that wasn’t the intent. Most had served a while in the imperial army, long enough to understand that first sorties were for scouting and testing the enemy’s strengths… and weaknesses. The true fight would come later.
“Don’t worry,” he told them, eyes twinkling. “I don’t expect you to take the battlements. If you do, though, don’t worry about giving them back.”
It was an old joke, but the men laughed anyway, and Holger chuckled along with them, then grew serious again, turning to the Jolithan priest.
“Father Arinus? Will you give us a prayer?”
The cleric had not laughed, hadn’t even smiled at the joke. His face might have been hewn of stone as he stepped forward, the Scatas and Knights alike kneeling before him. Holger knelt too, as did Loren beside him. With deliberation Arinus pulled off his gauntlets and set them on the ground, then raised his bare hands over the soldiers. Brown leaves, stirred by the night wind, rattled on the limbs above him.
“Jolitho Moubol,” the war-priest prayed, “Ricdas Folio, tas lon-fam ciffud e nas punfasom fribas sparud. Couros icolamo du tarn.”
Mighty Kiri-Jolith, Sword of Justice, raise up thy shield and ward off our enemies’ blows. We consecrate our blades to thee.
Steel rang as he drew his sword, a silver blade marked with gold filigree, then echoed as the riders followed suit. As one, they raised the weapons to their lips and kissed their quillons. Then they sheathed them again—all but Arinus, who instead set his against the palm of his left hand. Holger had seen this rite many times before, but he still bit down on one corner of his moustache as the Jolithan pressed the steel to bare flesh, then drew the blade across himself.
A few of the riders groaned as blood welled from the cut, but Arinus’s expression still didn’t change. Instead he clenched his fist, squeezing red droplets onto the rocky ground, then wiped his sword on his surcoat, leaving a crimson smear upon the gold. “Sifat,” he declared, his voice betraying no pain.
“Sifat,” echoed the riders. The blessing done, they rose and moved to their horses.
Holger stared after them as they rode away, a long dark line wending up the gully’s far side. He wanted to follow, to feel the wind through the visor of his helm as they swept down on Govinna. He wanted to be there when the thrice-damned rebels saw for the first time what they had to face. Lightbringer or no Lightbringer, they would recognize their own doom. But he didn’t follow. He still had work ahead, tactics to plan, before he assailed Govinna properly. His battle-yearning would have to wait a while longer.
Sighing, he turned and headed back toward the camp.
* * * * *
The tunnel changed as it delved ever deeper beneath the Pantheon. The dead and their niches continued, the ceiling low enough that Beldyn and Cathan had to stoop to keep from hitting their heads on it. Between the recesses, however, the stone walls gave way to plaster, smooth but crumbling, worn away in places. Where it held, it bore the colors of old frescoes, painted in archaic style and faded with age.
The pictures were hard to see in the wavering torchlight, and Cathan had to squint to make out what they showed. Here silver and bronze dragons soared high, locked in battle with wyrms of blue and green. There an army of warriors in antiquated bronze armor battled a foe whose image had long since vanished. In a third place, tattooed, naked savages thrust spears into men in white vestments, hung upside-down from oak trees.
“Martyrs to the god,” murmured Beldyn, regarding the last “You see now why the early clerics chose to build their fane down here.”
Cathan shuddered, staring at the Taoli barbarians’ hate-filled expressions. One wore a scar on his face, similar to Tavarre’s. “They fought against the church and lost,” Cathan said. “Now here we are, their heirs, doing the same.”
“We will not lose,” Beldyn declared, turning away. “They did not have the gods behind them.”
He moved on, and so did Cathan, watching down the passage for signs of danger. None appeared. The silence of the crypt made a thunder of each echoing footfall. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the path ended at an archway, a triangle carved in its keystone. There were words, too, etched by the same hand, but age had worn them away until they were illegible. Dragons had still filled the skies when the arch was new.
Beyond, the passage gave way to steps, spiraling down even deeper into the rock. The stair was narrow, broad enough for only one man, the air above it alive with dust that glittered in the torchlight Cathan swallowed, then pushed past Beldyn so he was in the lead as they descended. He tried not to look as frightened as he felt, but his sword still trembled in his hand, and sweat ran in runnels down his face as he craned, trying to see around the spiraling stair. Guarded. The crown was guarded. By what?
He decided he could gladly live to be a hundred without knowing the answer.
The steps wound a long way, farther even than the flight that first led them into the catacombs. By the time they reached the bottom, the tunnel’s air had turned cold and stale, and dark, wet patches marred the walls. He didn’t know how he knew, but Cathan felt sure the damp came from the River Edessa. They were below the river now, below everything. Halfway to the Abyss, it seemed—except for the bloody cold, of course.
At the foot of the stair, the catacombs resumed once more, niches and frescoes and all, older even than the ones above. Cathan shook his head, shivering and wondering. What must it have been like for the folk who dwelt here once? What kind of life was it, hiding in tunnels because existence on the surface was so dangerous?
“The light,” Beldyn said as they looked down the hall.
Cathan glanced at him. “What?”
The monk’s eyes gleamed, fever-bright. “Light,” he repeated. “Put out your torch.”
This far down? Cathan thought. Are you insane?
He did lower the brand, however, using his hand to shade it, and then he saw it too: A warm glow shone up the passage ahead, more golden than the ruddy torchlight. He quailed a little, then found his resolve and moved on down the hall. The light grew brighter as they walked, and when at last they reached a sharp bend in the passage, it was vivid enough to devour their torch light entirely. He stopped at the corner, his mouth going dry as he reached back to stay Beldyn. Sword tip quivering, he leaned forward and peered around the bend— and stopped, sucking in a sudden breath.
For their fane, the long-dead priests had chosen a vast, natural cave, hollowed out of the earth by countless years of dripping water. The cave was dry now, however. No pools filled the hollows of its uneven floor, and no moisture dripped from the stalactites that jabbed down from above, like the fangs of some immense stone dragon. Carvings of armored warriors and robed clerics marked the many stalagmites and the creamy flowstone that covered the cavern’s walls. Above it all rose the god.
The image the priests had painted on the ceiling was of Paladine, but it was a different Paladine than Cathan had ever seen before. The church favored kindly images of the god: the Valiant Warrior, with his shining armor and noble face; the Dawn-Father, all long-bearded, white-robed gentleness; and the Platinum Dragon, coiled and soft-eyed. The image that glared down at the two of them, however, was stern and fierce, his curly hair and beard raven-black. This was the god’s old face, the one whose followers had conquered half of Ansalon, tamed barbarians, subjugated kingdom and city-state alike to forge the empire. His ice-blue eyes reminded Cathan of the way Beldyn’s had looked at Ilista’s funeral, with just a glint of madness in them. He shuddered.
&n
bsp; “What is it?”
Cathan jumped at the sound of Beldyn’s voice. “We found it,” he whispered over his shoulder.
They entered quietly, Beldyn staring at the god’s image while Cathan looked about the cavern, searching for the guardian the scroll had spoken about. It had to be close by, lurking in the shadows, perhaps clinging to the wall, or even hanging from the ceiling. Wherever he shone his torch—barely useful now, in the golden glare—there was nothing to see. Hands sweating in his gloves, he led the way into the fane.
The glow’s source lay ahead, but they couldn’t make it out from the entrance. A row of six stalagmites, chiseled into statues of forgotten high priests, stood with their backs to them, blocking their view of the chamber’s far side. Beldyn paused a few steps in, genuflecting to the glaring god above— those fearsome eyes which seemed to follow them—then signed the triangle and started forward again. Cathan stole ahead of him, sword ready, certain the mysterious protector was hiding behind the stalagmites.
It wasn’t. On the other side of the statues stood several rows of pews, carved out of the same milky stone that made up most of the rest of the cave. Brass braziers, dark and pitted with age, loomed to either side, as did several silver censers, now tarnished black. Beyond, the floor rose toward the far wall, stopping at a ledge that served as a natural dais. The clerics had carved steps out of it, and upon it stood a triangular altar of white marble, veined with silvery blue.
Sitting atop the altar was the Miceram.
It was just as Beldyn had described it, reading from the scroll the night before. Hewn of bright gold and lined with red velvet, it bore ten points about its rim, each tipped with a sparkling, round ruby. An eleventh, the size of a hen’s egg, glinted at the peak of its cap. The shimmering light spilled from it, washing across the fane. Like a star fallen from the sky, was Cathan’s first thought.
“Palado Calib,” Beldyn breathed. Tears glittered in his eyes. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”
Cathan stared at the crown, afraid it would disappear if he moved abruptly, like a dream upon waking. After a moment, though, he blinked, shaking himself. Here was the Miceram, waiting as foretold, but what of the guardian?
Eyes narrowed, he grabbed hold of the nearest statue and leaned out, peering first past the altar, then to the left and right. Nothing—nothing to stop them from walking up and just taking the crown from the altar. He glanced again at the god’s glowering, watchful face and frowned. Was this what Pradian’s writings had meant? Was the scroll’s warning of watchers merely intended to mean Paladine himself?
He’d nearly convinced himself of just that when a soft noise behind him raised the hairs on his neck. Stiffening, he glanced at Beldyn. The young monk had turned to look back toward the fane’s entrance, and his face was the color of ashes, his blue eyes wide. Teeth clamped together, Cathan turned as well… and stared into the sightless eyes of the dead.
The corpses had risen, sliding out of their burial places to follow them down here. They had come in horrible silence, their only sound the scratch of bony feet against the stone floor. Flesh hung from their brown bones in gristly ropes. Dried entrails dangled from holes where their bellies had been. Tongues like strips of leather moved within their jaws, but to no effect. They had no breath to fuel their voices. There were already a score of them in the cavern, and many more were shambling behind, filling the passage where he and Beldyn had just been. It looked as if every corpse in the catacombs had awoken to confront them. To guard the Miceram.
“Oh, Abyss,” he breathed.
The dead clerics shuffled forward, staggering like mummers’ string puppets. Trying to swallow and realizing he lacked the spit, Cathan grabbed for Beldyn—who still stood rooted, paralyzed with horror—and shoved him back against the stalagmites. His sword came up as he moved to stand protectively before the monk—waiting for the gruesome revenants to attack.
Attack they did. He swung his sword as they drew near, striking the first at the base of its jawbone and shearing off its head. The skull flew, smashing to pieces on the floor. For a moment its body remained standing, long enough to make him wonder, but then the thing collapsed, clattering to the floor in a heap, and did not rise again.
He allowed himself a victorious grin, which vanished as two more lurched forward, bony fingers clutching, to take the fallen mummy’s place. He lashed out again, cleaving through one corpse’s collarbone and smashing it to the ground. The second reached out and seized his cloak, yanking him closer. Yelping, he brought his sword back up, slamming its hilt into the corpse’s face. The creature’s head snapped back, and he spun his blade around, cleaving through its wrist. The severed hand continued to cling to him even as he dropped the walking corpse with a swing that cut it in two beneath the ribs.
He laid low five more, piling the floor at his feet with bones, before they overwhelmed him. First, a corpse’s bony claws got past his defenses, ripping through his leather cuirass. Blood beaded beneath his armor then began to seep. His skin burned as if Kautilyan fire had spilled on it, and he ground his teeth against the pain as he swept the dead priest’s legs out from beneath, then drove the point of his blade into another mummy’s skull. The strange wound already slowed him, however, and soon he had a second, a raking gash across his shoulder that numbed his entire sword arm.
Still he fought on, keeping himself between the corpses and Beldyn. The monk still hadn’t moved. He simply stared at the dead priests in abject terror. Nothing stood between him and the Miceram, yet he didn’t try to grab it or make a run for it.
“Move, damn it!” Cathan finally shouted, flailing against the growing forest of reaching, leathery arms. Still more entered the fane, two for every one he felled. “Get to the bloody crown! Get—”
He didn’t have the chance to finish the sentence. A bony hand slammed into the side of his head, denting his helmet and sending him staggering. Black stars burst in his vision as another corpse grabbed his sword by the crossguard and yanked it from his grasp. A third caught him about the stomach, bowling him over backward. Its dead weight crashed down on top of him, blasting the air from his lungs. He whooped for breath, struggling to rise, but more dead priests set upon him now, seizing his arms and legs, holding him still. Snarling, he arched his back, twisting wildly, but there was nothing he could do. Darkness wavered at the corners of his vision, but he fought back valiantly, craning to look around, searching for a glimpse of Beldyn.
He gave a wretched moan. To his right, another knot of corpses had dragged the young monk down. Beldyn lay beneath their writhing forms, unmoving. “No,” Cathan groaned.
A bony hand covered his nose and mouth, smothering him. Sobbing, he gave one last thrash of futile resistance, as the darkness bore him away.
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 t
he dusty tunnel, but no matter how hard he’d squinted and scowled, Beldyn and Cathan hadn’t emerged. He hadn’t 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.”
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