Marto saw him, fire in his eyes. “They’re all dead!” he snapped. “The Kingpriest, the First Son, the First Daughter-these bloody moon-worshippers killed them all!”
Cathan started, his gaze following Marto’s gesturing hand. Adsem and Farenne indeed lay sprawled and unmoving among his knights. Looking at their bodies, Cathan had no doubt that magic had killed them. The First Son’s vestments were still smoldering. The Church of Istar had lost its leaders.
“Merciful gods,” he breathed.
Marto laughed bitterly. “Not today.”
A shout drew Cathan’s attention. Spears lowered, Serl’s soldiers were trying to charge the wizards’ flank. One by one, the sorcerers cut them down, lashing out with darts of green flame. One of Serl’s Ergothmen broke through, however, and a wizard-an elderly Red Robe, already bleeding from a cut across his cheek-jerked wildly as the soldier ran him through. The Ergothman collapsed too, a whip of crimson lightning lashing out from the Red Robe’s body, one last spell that tore him in two as the wizard died.
Cathan stared at the carnage all around, the bodies strewn like dolls and the trees burning in the courtyard. The paving stones were torn into furrows and craters, and even the
“Tithian!” he called. “With me.”
Slapping his former squire’s shoulder, Cathan ran to where Lord Yarns was marshaling his knights.
“We have to pull back,” he advised.
The High Clerist looked at him with disdain. “Retreat? And sully our honor? I don’t know how things are in Istar, but the men of Solamnia do not flee from battle.”
Serl proved no easier. Ergoth didn’t abide by the Solamnic Measure, but the duke had lost two sons in the fighting already. He nearly struck Cathan when asked to give ground.
“Never!” he raged, though his forces were down to a handful. “Not before I send every last one of those caitiffs howling to the Abyss!”
Just then Vincil summoned a dozen spectral warriors to do his bidding. The phantasms fought well, killing five more knights-four of the Hammer and one of Yarus’s men. Calling on Paladine and Kiri-Jolith and Beldinas alike, the remaining warriors rallied and cut the specters down. The knights tried to penetrate the wizards’ shields and blocking spells, but the ensorcelments threw them back, howling in agony. Helpless, Cathan saw his men perish one by one.
He sent runners to the Hammerhall, but the keep was too far away for reinforcements to arrive in time. Faithful Tithian stayed at his side, and Marto, darkening the air with curses.
The Karthayan pounded on the magical shield with his axe, exhorting the few knights still on their feet, but it was more show than anything else.
Another crossbow bolt got through the shield. A sorceress in white crumpled, a steel shaft in her throat. Cathan grimaced, looking to Leciane. She stood firm, still casting spells at the Highmage’s side. Her face was pale and weary, filmed with a sheen of sweat. She winced, waving her hand as Marto ran forward and struck the protective shield with his axe. Violet energy flared, and the big knight stumbled back with a grunt.
Somehow, she sensed Cathan’s eyes on her. She looked up and met his gaze, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.
Turning, she shouted something to Vincil. The highmage looked at her, then at the one remaining White Robe, a fat man who looked like he’d never fought a battle in his life.
Leciane said something else-then, grimly, he nodded. Raising his hands, he began to weave them through the air, in a pattern Cathan recognized. He knew the words, too. He’d heard Leciane speak them before.
“Back!” he cried, waving his arms. The Solamnics gave ground, shields raised. They were brave men, but no fools. As the silver light of the teleport spell began to swirl, the Ergothmen and the knights of the Hammer also drew back.
All except one.
“No, gods damn you!” Sir Marto roared, rushing the shield like a maniac. “You’re not getting away!”
“Marto, don’t!” Cathan shouted.
The big knight wasn’t listening. The light of Vincil’s spell grew bright, brighter, surrounding him and Leciane and the fat White Robe. The magical shields flickered, then disappeared. Throwing himself into the light, Marto raised his axe and brought it down.
With a rush like wind down a mountain pass, the wizards were gone. As the light burst, the men turned away. Some shrieked in terror, thinking the spell would destroy them-but the glittering energy passed over them harmlessly, washing across the courtyard. Cathan let out a groan when he saw Marto standing alone, where the mages had been. The big knight smiled as he raised his empty right hand. Of his axe, there was no sign-but blood dripped from his fingers.
“I did it,” he exclaimed, beaming. “I got the son of a bitch.”
Leciane’s stomach dropped away as Vincil’s spell flung her across the world. She had thought he would send them back to the Tower at Istar, but the Highmage had chosen Wayreth instead. She could see his study in the distance, as if through a spyglass, moving toward her with the speed of a charging dragon.
Something began to go awry. The spell ebbed, its power unraveling like a threadbare tapestry. The study started to slow down, then reverse its direction. Her mind raced. What was happening? Had Vincil made a mistake?
Reaching out, she managed to catch hold of the magic. It was an act of desperation, using her last reserves of power to shore up the spell. Gritting her teeth, Leciane added her strength to it, willed it to continue. The study flickered back into view. She held her breath, straining as they continued to fly through space, her body so tense it felt as if it might explode….
With a shattering sound, Leciane tumbled onto the carpet of Vincil’s study, nearly cracking her skull against the corner of a table. Eilar, the fat mage, landed with a
There was blood all over her.
Panic rising, Leciane scrambled out from beneath the highmage and twisted to her feet.
When she was upright, she stared at Vincil in numb horror. He lay facedown on the carpet, the upper half of his body twitching wildly. Lodged in the small of his back was a beaked war axe.
Eilar gasped, seeing the highmage. His flabby face, already pallid, turned gray. His eyes bulged from their sockets.
“Get someone!” Leciane half-screamed, slapping him across the face. “Anyone!
As Eilar jumped up and ran out the door, Leciane dropped to her knees beside Vincil.
She felt his throat. The lifebeat was barely there.
“No,” she breathed, staring at his wound. His spine had been cut. “Damn you, no!”
Vincil stirred. His eyes flickered open, dull with shock. “We made it,” he gasped. “It’s so-cold …”
“Vincil, I–I’ve sent for help.”
Somehow he laughed, blood bubbling on his lips. “Won’t matter,” he answered. He trailed off, choking.
Gods, thought Leciane, how did everything go so wrong?
“Andras,” Vincil said, as if reading her mind. “He was-the one. Suvin was a-fetch.”
Leciane nodded. In their wildest dreams they had never expected the Black Robe to infiltrate the moot. “There will never be peace now,” she murmured.
“No. There will be-war, and we-will lose.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting.
Tears scorched her eyes. She touched his face. “Do you want me to try to pull it out?”
Vincil looked at her, understanding. The axe was all that was keeping him alive. When it came out, his pain would end. Shuddering, he nodded. “Tell Lady Jorelia-to proceed with-the contingency. She-will know-what to do.”
Leciane nodded. With Ysarl dead, Lady Jorelia would become the next highmage. “And-?”
He smiled, ghastly. “A-farewell kiss?”
She bent low over him. His lips were covered with blood. He sighed, and she felt his mouth relax against hers. The gentleness of it surprised her.
