Chosen of the Gods

press. Sir Gareth, the bravest and stoutest, was alone now, almost at the chasm, battling furiously. His horse was gone, and his armor was awash with blood, though she couldn’t tell how much was his enemies’ and how much his own.

“Be ready!” she called to Beldyn.

Somehow, Gareth held the bridge. His sword snapped as he parried a slash from a Scata, and the blade glinted as it tumbled into the gorge. He didn’t seem to notice- undaunted, he fought on with the weapon’s broken stump. His shield, battered and gashed, finally split in two. He flung the pieces at the riders then drew a dagger from his belt.

“For the Lightbringer!” he bellowed, and hurled himself at the soldiers with the last of his strength.

Then he was gone.

Ilista stared, horrified, as Gareth disappeared among the Scatas. Shaking, she looked to the bridge. The last of the refugees were stepping off the span now, Tavarre and Vedro shoving them onto solid ground. The first of the Scatas started across, a thicket of spearheads extended before them. Ilista swallowed, touching her medallion.

“Now, Beldyn!” she cried.

At once, the young monk opened his eyes. Blue fire danced within them as he flung out his right arm, then he raised his voice in a shout that lashed the air like a thunderclap.

“Pridud!” he cried. Break!

A rumble shook the ground, startling the villagers and making the Scatas’ horses rear. The bridge shuddered, dust and chips of stone showering into the chasm. The noise of the tremor echoed among the hills, like the growl of some long-vanished dragon.

Sparks flared from Beldyn’s fingertips as he turned his outstretched hand palm upwards. “Pridud!”

The earth trembled again, louder and harder. On either side of the chasm, men drew back, shouting in terror. The headless statue collapsed altogether, tumbling into the gorge, and spider-web cracks spread across the bridge, shaking flagstones loose. The soldiers on the span turned, desperate, trying to flee to their fellows.

With a snap, Beldyn’s fingers curled into a fist.

“PRIDUD!”

The silver light flared around Beldyn, blossoming from his hand to engulf him, then flashing outward in a rippling wave that struck the bridge like a dwarf-smith’s hammer. As it did, the ground shook so violently Ilista had to clutch to the ruined statue’s ankle to steady herself. Everywhere, men and women stumbled and fell. The bridge bucked, twisting horribly as more and more cracks widened all over it. The Scatas all but hurled themselves back toward solid ground beneath Beldyn’s holy fire.

With an awful rending sound, the bridge burst asunder, sending stones and soldiers and horses alike thundering into the frothing river below. At the same time, Beldyn began to fall as well, his knees buckling as Cathan reached out and grabbed him, easing him to the ground.

The refugees walked on as the sun disappeared behind the Khalkists, the first stars agleam in the darkening sky. They moved slowly, their pursuers left behind, stranded by the bridge’s collapse. The deaths of the Knights weighed heavily on them all.

The villagers looked to Beldyn with deeper awe than before. They had seen him heal; now they had seen him destroy. Too, they had seen what it cost him, for the shrouding light did not go away. It still shone brightly, like a second silver moon come to earth. He rode in a daze, head bowed, and did not look up. Several times he slumped and would have fallen, had Cathan not been at his side to bear him up.

Still he rode, refusing to stop, and so the borderfolk followed him, fighting through their own weariness to keep going well into the night, finally halting in a narrow cleft, out of the frigid wind. Huddled around smoldering fires, they ate a meager supper, then fell into restless slumber.

Not everyone found rest, however. Ilista sat alone on a boulder outside the camp, staring skyward, where dark clouds scudded, blurred by her tears. She had tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she saw Sir Gareth, standing defiantly before the bridge, his broken sword ablaze with sunlight. Again and again she watched him fall, the Lightbringer’s name on his lips. He had given his Me, died with honor, but only the people in her ragged band would ever know. The word that went back to Istar would be that he’d fallen protecting traitors and bandits from the iron weight of the law.

Who is to say that isn’t true? she wondered, shaking her head. Kurnos is the crowned Kingpriest-Symeon named him so. Who am I to act against him?

“You are my servant,” said a voice, “doing my will.”

Starting, Ilista rose to her feet There was someone there, in the darkness, a shadow against the night. She drew back, reaching for her mace-then stopped, realizing she’d left the weapon at camp.

“Who is it?” she hissed. “Show yourself!”

He did, stepping close enough that she could make him out in the moonlight, a fat man in a white habit, a smile brightening his florid face. It was Brother Jendle, the monk she had dreamed about, these many weeks ago, in her room in Istar.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She didn’t-couldn’t-move, but only stared with her mouth open. His eyes sparkled with starlight.

“You’re having doubts,” he noted, “after what happened today.”

She blinked back tears. “Sir Gareth-he was sworn to protect me.”

“He did. If he hadn’t held the bridge, the soldiers would have caught you. I wish things could have been different, but Sir Gareth did what was right. We should not mourn those who die fulfilling their purpose in this world,”

Dista looked away, out into the dark. What purpose? she wanted to rail. What are we doing? What are we? A small, hungry band of ruffians, with both the church and the imperial army arrayed against us. How can we stand against the might of Istar? How do we know we’re even right to try it?

“Damn it, Paladine,” she whispered, “what do you want of me?”

When she looked back, though, the monk was gone.

She stayed on the boulder until the silver moon set. Then she returned to camp. When she slept at last, Ilista did not dream.

Chapter Eighteen

Tenthmonth, 923 LA.

The hippogriff cocked its head as it peered at the hunk of raw meat, its raptor’s eyes peering intently in the light of late afternoon. Its feathered tail twitched as it pawed the grassy earth with a forehoof. Its hooked beak opened and closed hungrily.

“That’s right,” Kurnos murmured. “Supper’s here. Now come take it, you blasted wretch.”

He’d had the meat torn from the hindquarters of an antelope his cooks were preparing for the evening banquet. Its bloody scent filled the air as he stood within his rose garden- bloomless still, more than a month after Symeon’s death-facing off against the hippogriff. Since his coronation, the beast had steadfastly refused to come near him, though he knew it to be docile. The old Kingpriest had fed it from his hand, but around Kurnos it held back, no matter what he did. Now it finally seemed to be overcoming its reluctance and took a step toward him as he stood still, the meat dangling from his hand.

It ought to have. He’d been starving it for days.

He couldn’t say why it was important that the hippogriff accept him, but that made it no less true. Certainly the imperial court had accepted him-once he’d gotten rid of the last dissenters, of course-and the folk of the Lordcity shouted his name in praise whenever he emerged from the Temple. When he’d attended a recital by a renowned Dravinish dul-cimist last night at the Arena, the citizens had applauded louder for him than they had for the musician. Indeed, all the empire seemed to have little objection to his fledgling rule-except the bandits in Taol, of course, and the army would deal with them soon enough.