Sacred Fire

He recognized his sister when he saw her. He opened his mouth to call out to Wentha, then momentarily stopped when he spotted two other shapes creeping toward her from his left; they were cloaked and hooded, and he saw something at one man’s hip that was unmistakably the hilt of a sword. The other had some kind of mace or cudgel in his hand.

Cathan’s blood turned to ice: He wished that he’d remembered Ebonbane. He searched around, looking for some hunk of crumbled stone he might throw, but everything was either gravel or huge chunks. He could take one of the pair down by surprise, but the other would almost certainly get past him.

“Get down!” Cathan bellowed, running at Wentha. She started to turn toward him, but he barreled into her, knocking her away from the two men. She sprawled backward on the ground, the air leaving her with a whoosh.

The two men stopped, startled. They were both beardless, and wore white masks over the upper halves of their faces. Young, by their looks, but that was all Cathan could tell. One drew his blade-a short stabbing weapon, just a bit too long to be called a dagger-and they came at him.

He saw the sword’s tip coming and leaped away from the blow, directly at the man with the cudgel. He felt the club glance off his left shoulder-but that didn’t stop him from ramming the man in the stomach. At the same time, he got a hand around the man’s wrist and twisted, feeling the crunch of bones as they went down in a heap together.

The cudgel came out of the man’s suddenly limp hand, and Cathan grabbed it up without a moment’s pause, twisted halfway to his feet, and brought the weapon around to parry another stab. He spun and blocked another blow before swinging back, feinting, then diverting his blow and slamming the club into the man’s cheek. The sword clattered down. The man dropped to his knees and swayed a moment before sprawling face-down on the ground.

The other one was getting up again, the mouth below the mask drawn back in a snarl, a bit of blood on the lip. Cathan kicked him in the jaw, snapping his head back and dropping him like a sack of grain. This time he didn’t get up.

Wentha was groaning, struggling to rise. He’d hit her harder than he’d meant to. “Hang on” he said to her, reaching for the dropped sword. “I’ll be with you in-”

There was a ping, and the blade leaped into the air, spinning out of his grasp. A crossbow bolt clattered away across the pavement. He blinked, then whirled, cudgel at the ready… and stopped, his eyes widening when he saw half a dozen more masked men, all of them aiming crossbows at him.

“Please drop that, Uncle,” said a voice to his right.

He turned, his jaw dropping open. It was Tancred who had spoken. He wore a gray cloak over his priestly vestments. Bare-chested Rath was with him. They both wore the same white masks. Cathan’s thoughts bounced around wildly as he regarded the brothers. His mouth tried to make words.

“Why-what are-this-”

“Do as they say,” Wentha said. “They’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

He looked back at his sister, and the cudgel fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. She stared back, her mouth a cold, hard line. As she stood up, he saw that above her mouth, tied tight about her head, was another white mask.

Wentha nodded to the crossbowmen, and one of them lowered his weapon, ran forward, and kicked the club away. Cathan barely noticed. He could only look at his sister as she stepped forward, a ghost in the mist

“You always were trouble,” she said. “You shouldn’t have followed me, Cathan.”

Chapter 8

Cathan could only stare at his sister and the mask she wore. He felt like the world had dropped away beneath him, leaving him hanging above a yawning chasm.

“Blossom?” he asked.

The crossbowmen shifted, glancing at one another, then over at the swordsman Cathan had put down. The man groaned as Rath and Tancred helped him up, then limped forward, cradling his injured hand in the other. The side of his face, where Cathan had clouted him with the cudgel, was a purple mess, and his eye had swollen shut. The other was sharp, however, and glinted as he looked first at Cathan, then at Wentha.

“You know him?” he growled. His voice was harsh, made mushy by his mashed face.

“Of course I do,” Wentha replied. “Look at him. Closely.” Scowling, the ruffian turned and did as she asked. A bloodstain at the edge of his mask grew larger. Then he started, his eyes meeting Cathan’s. He swore with great skill. “The Twice-Born! What in the blue Abyss is he doing here?”

“Rescuing me,” Wentha said, her mouth crooking slightly. She glanced at her sons. “I thought you said no one saw us leave.”

“I said I didn’t notice anyone,” Tancred replied. “Once we were past the curtains, how was I to know?”

The ruffian cursed again. “You mean he followed you? Gods damn it, what if he’s not the only one? You could have led half the imperial court to us!”

“I don’t think-” Rath began.

“Shut up, boy,” the ruffian snapped, then raised his hand to his men. “Scatter. Back to the hole.”

Rath stepped forward, his hand straying toward his sword, but stopped as two crossbows swung toward him. He turned a sulky look on the ruffian, saying nothing more.

“What in Paladine’s name is going on?” Cathan finally managed to ask.

Wentha opened her mouth to answer, but the ruffian raised a hand. His men were backing away, melting back into the mist. Two took the other one Cathan had knocked out, each with an arm about his shoulders. The lead ruffian shook his head, his long black hair swaying.

“Questions later,” he said, catching his sword when one of his men lobbed it his way. He gestured with it, at the fog. “Right now, we need to disappear.”

Wentha took Cathan’s hand. Her dark eyes pleaded with him, through the holes in her mask. “Come on,” she said. “If the Hammer finds us, we’re all dead.”

What in the gods have you gotten into? Cathan asked, aiming the question at both his sister and himself. But he got no answer-only a wrenching pain as Wentha yanked him toward her, then began to run.

Mist and shadow flowed past them, and then the towering shapes of the ziggurats. They turned a corner, then another, and soon he had no idea which way he was pointed any more. He lost sight of the others-the ruffians’ injured leader, his nephews, everyone but Wentha, who held his wrist tightly, her slipper-shod feet making no sound against the cobbles. He clomped along behind in his hard boots, feeling like an ox in a Micahi glassblower’s shop.

Suddenly there was something in front of them, and he stumbled to a stop just in time to avoid barreling into Wentha. Ahead, half masked by the fog, was the Vanished Wall: ancient, huge stone blocks rising anywhere from waist-high to ten feet, the top crumbling and crusted with mortar. The swordsman was here already, along with Rath and several of the crossbowmen. Tancred and the others hurried up behind, making no sound.

The leader of the band was studying a statue, set in a recess in the wall. It was headless and armless, clad in segmented armor no man had worn in seven centuries. The plinth at its feet simply proclaimed KELOSTIS, a name Cathan didn’t recognize. There were relics like it all over Chidell, remnants of times forgotten to all but sages. But the ruffian paid the plinth close attention, his good hand resting on one of the statue’s sandaled feet as his men watched behind, crossbows ready.

‘“Who-” Cathan began.

Wentha put a hand over his mouth. “Later.”

The ruffian studied the statue a moment longer, then reached up, as high as he could, and touched the buckle of the forgotten warrior’s belt. It moved inward, a quarter-inch maybe, with a faint click. Then, with a low rumble, statue and pedestal alike rose up from the ground and swung outward. The ruffians’ leader stepped aside, then leaned forward when it was done.