Chosen of the Gods

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 failed. 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