Chosen of the Gods

It was after midnight, and the highland sky was clear, the stars glittering like chips of ice. That was better than the snow of the night before. There was nothing like a good snap of foul weather to muck up a battle. The camp stood in a rock-strewn valley east of the River Edessa, just off the main road to Govinna. The bulk of Holger’s force had arrived earlier that day, tired from hard marching. Most of them slept now, the footmen in bedrolls and the officers in their own tents, but a few pockets of drunken Scatas remained awake, singing lewd songs around their fires. Holger would have preferred silence, but he’d long since learned soldiers weren’t Knights. They needed their vices. Wine was the least of these and the one concession he made in the interest of morale. Better, he told himself, than the place swarming with camp followers.

He made his way across the camp, Loren dogging his heels. Several sentries raised their torches as he approached, then saluted when they recognized him. Finally, he reached the camp’s northern end, where the ground rose to the valley’s rim. He climbed the crumbling slope easily-city-softened or not, he still had a young man’s vigor-and stopped at the crest, looking down into a bowl-shaped depression beyond. Below, barely visible among the ash trees and night’s shadows, waited the army’s advance riders.

They were only a small part of his forces, just a thousand strong, but they were enough for his purposes. Unlike the slumbering Scatas in the vale behind him, they were awake and armored, their horses ready to ride.

“All accounted for, milord,” said a young Knight of the Crown, clambering up the hill to meet him. Sir Utgar, his name was, as fine a horseman as any in Holger’s force. His blond moustache curled above a proud smile. “They await your orders.”

Holger nodded. “Well, then,” he replied, starting downhill.

The riders moved swiftly at his approach, scrambling to fall into order, their blue cloaks turning violet in Lunitari’s ruddy light. A black-bearded, barrel-chested man, wearing a surcoat over matching scale armor-both gold in color, burnt copper in the moonglow-stood before them, waiting. He wore no robes, and a sword hung from his belt. Such was the field garb of the clergy of Kiri-Jolith. Unlike Paladine’s priests, the Jolithan order had no compunctions against edged weapons. He raised his hands in greeting, curling his fingers to sign the battle god’s horns.

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?