Chosen of the Gods

like the crackling air before a summer storm. It made him jerk his hand away, and he stepped back from the pedestal.

“It’s all right, lad,” Pradian said, leaning forward. “It feels strange, I know, but you’ll get used to it. You’ll have to, if you’re going to stop the Scatas.”

“Me, stop the Scatas?” Cathan repeated, then looked at the ghost. “How?”

The spectre only smiled. “I can’t tell you. Only the crown can do that.”

Cathan swallowed, feeling the truth of the specter’s words. He reached out again, and this time nothing stopped him. The crown lifted off the pedestal easily and quickly warmed in his grasp. Cathan turned, raising it high.

“Go on,” Pradian urged, his blank eyes shining. “All you have to do is put it on.”

Cathan held still, the Miceram poised above his own head.

He took a deep breath. Then, with a slow smile, he brought it down…

… and set it on the bed beside Beldyn.

Pradian’s swarthy face had been exultant. Now it changed: “Fool!” he thundered. “The Scatas will take it back to the Lordcity and give it to the false Kingpriest who sits the throne there! Do you want that?”

“No.” Cathan smiled slyly. “Neither do you. It will be the end of your claim to the throne. You’ll have lost your war at last… unless you wake Beldyn.”

The ghost scowled. For a long moment, neither of them moved… then, slowly, Pradian nodded. “Very well,” he said, “but remember what you’re giving up, boy.”

“It was never mine in the first place.”

With one last glare, the ghost turned away, gliding to Beldyn’s bedside. His eyes lingered hungrily on the Miceram, then he bent low, his mouth seeking the Lightbringer’s. Their lips met, and light blazed, the crown’s gold and Beldyn’s silver aflame together. Cathan fell back as the light stung his eyes, throwing up his arm to block it out-and it was gone, and Pradian with it, the ghost vanished into the air.

Beldyn’s eyes flickered open.

Uttering a wordless cry, Cathan ran over and seized the monk’s wasted hand. He pressed it to his cheek, laughing and weeping at the same time. “Palado Calib” he said, and could say nothing more.

Weakly, the Lightbringer smiled. His eyes went to the crown, lying beside him. His free hand reached out, shaking, to brush its central ruby. “Site ceram biriat, abat,” he whispered, then turned to look at Cathan. “Thank you, my friend. I’ve been through a lot, but now I know how I can stop the Scatas. Help me up. Let me show you.”

Beaming, Cathan helped lift him from the bed. Beldyn was weak still, his legs trembling as he got to his feet, but he refused any help. Instead, he nodded to the Miceram, his eyes gleaming in its golden light.

“Bring that,” he said.

Cathan laughed, reaching for the crown-then stopped as a sound broke through the air, jarring him: a clarion war-horn. He listened to it, not believing, then bowed his head with a moan. He knew the call.

They were too late. The battle was beginning.

Sathira swept across the highlands, skimming over the rocky ground. It was easy to keep hidden in the night’s shadows, so she could move swiftly across the land, unimpeded by broken ground, tangled bracken or the white-frothed streams that tumbled through cuts on their way to the thundering Edessa. She flowed over them all, hissing with anticipation. She could smell the monk’s reek on the wind.

At last, she reached the crest of a tor crowned by a tall, mossy boulder. She perched atop the stone, her green eyes flaring as she beheld Govinna. There it was, sprawled on its twin precipices, sparkling with lamplight. In its midst, high-towered and copper-roofed, loomed the Pantheon. Loathing swelled within her at the sight of it. She had failed here, thwarted by the thrice-damned priestess. The pain of her banishment flashed hot in her memory.

The priestess was dead now, though. She could protect Brother Beldyn no more.

Sathira became aware, suddenly, of a commotion to the south. Born of shadows, she could see in darkness as well as day and now beheld a great dust cloud, rising beyond the city. The Kingpriest’s army, she realized, letting out a harsh, hissing laugh. The siege was about to begin. The notion that those on both sides of the coming battle were servants of Paladine-or believed themselves to be-amused her greatly. The dark gods would be pleased indeed.

She crossed the remaining miles to the city in minutes. As she expected, most of Govinna’s sentries had left its north gates, to face the approaching Scat as, hut a few still remained. She killed three of them as she streaked over the wall, barely slowing as she ripped them open with her wicked talons. Hot blood dripped from the battlements as she dove into the narrow streets, leaving the other guards to stare in horror at the tattered remains of their fellows.

Getting into the Pantheon was even easier. Searching, she found an open window and glided through it into the dark halls. Bloodlust surged within her as she slid through the church. The Lightbringer’s stench was everywhere, making it hard to tell which way to go. It was strongest in the cloisters, though, so she headed that way, her claws opening and closing eagerly.

Finally, she came to a closed door, where the stink was stronger than anywhere else. The stench came from within. These were Beldyn’s quarters. She snarled a laugh, then her eyes flashed bright green, and the door blew off its hinges. Splinters rained onto the floor as slipped into the study. Glancing around to make sure the room was empty, she swept through to the bedchamber, where the reek was strongest. She stopped, letting out a furious growl.

The monk was gone.

Frustration boiled within her as she glared around the room. The Lightbringer’s odor lingered over the bed, but no one was in the room. Furious, she streaked about, shredding tapestries and smashing the shrine to Paladine in its corner, then turned and shot back out into the study… and stopped.

She was no longer alone. A young acolyte stood in the doorway, staring at the smoldering ruins of the door. Now his gaze lifted, and the color drained from his face. He froze, his eyes wild with terror.

In an eyeblink she had him, seizing him with claws locked around his neck, pricking his flesh. She shuddered with pleasure. He twitched in her grasp, choking.

“Where is he?” she barked. “The Lightbringer! Where has he gone?”

The boy didn’t answer. She saw, in his wide, frightened eyes that he really didn’t know. She tightened her grip, her talons digging deeper, and he struggled a moment longer then fell limp, blood pouring from the savaged ruins of his throat. He crumpled to the floor when she let him go and lay twitching and bleeding in the dark.

Then she was out the door again, streaking down the hall, her eyes ablaze with emerald fire. Beldyn was out there somewhere. She would find him.

Tavarre’s horn carried beyond Govinna as well as within. Its blare echoed among the hills, where the second and fourth Dromas of the imperial army waited. They had halted a mile south of the city, standing ready, weapons and shields in hand. Torches flickered among their ranks, but for the most part they carried no lights. They needed none to see their goal. Even in the dark night, there was no mistaking Govinna’s towering walls.

The Scatas had little in the way of siege equipment, but what they had was menacing. Dozens of scaling ladders lay on the ground, and at the rear was their great battering ram, a tree trunk three times as wide as a man was tall, hewn from a great ironwood tree. A massive, bronze head in the shape of a clenched fist covered its end, gleaming in the stars’ glow.

Standing near the ram with his officers, Lord Holger glanced up at the trumpet’s blare. His face tightened into a scowl. He’d just been considering sending a man forward to request a parley before the battle was joined. The borderfolk didn’t seem keen on giving him that chance, though. Already he could see swarms of them, lit by blazing braziers, thick atop the curtain wall.

“I don’t believe it,” said Sir Utgar, standing near Holger’s right hand. “They think they can fight us? Are they