was lucky it hadn’t caught him full in the face. A lesser warrior never would have seen the blow coming, nor recovered fast enough to launch a counterattack before his foe could capitalize on catching him off-balance-but the Marshal had been a knight of the Divine Hammer for nineteen years, and its leader for seven. There were few better swordsmen in the world.
Smiling behind his visor, he spun to his left, rising to full height once more and bashing his opponent’s weapon arm with his shield. The other knight-a hotheaded youth named Bron-grunted more with pain than surprise, and stumbled sideways, his sword dropping. Instinct took over, focusing on the momentary vulnerability, and the Marshal swung at Bron’s head.
Bron was an untested fighter, but he was also quick. His blade came up again, catching the Marshal’s a hand’s breadth from his temple. Steel crashed, and the two men stood locked, staring at each other through the eye-slits of their helms.
“Not bad,” the Marshal said tersely. “Another ten, fifteen years of this, and I might make a fighter of you.”
Sir Bron’s eyes flashed. “Another ten years, milord, and you’ll be too old to lift your sword.”
The Marshal laughed lustily, though the gibe was off the mark. He was only thirty-five; in ten years he would be a little past his prime, but he’d still be a fierce fighter. Lord Olin, his predecessor, had been nearly seventy when he’d died of heart-burst while sparring in this very yard. With few true enemies left to fight in the world, more of the Divine Hammer’s veterans fell to old age than battle these days.
“We’ll see, lad,” he said, and shoved Bron back. The two of them parted, circling behind their shields, each seeking some opening, some weakness.
Sir Bron’s greatest disadvantage, however, was not technique but impatience. The Grand Marshal used it against him, feinting several times but never bringing the fight to a clash. Each time, Bron grew more tense and unsettled, until finally he growled and came on hard, sword spinning in a low backhand cut. Grinning behind his visor, the Marshal caught the swing on the rim of his shield, then slid away, letting momentum carry the young knight past him. Nimble as a Zaladhi fire-dancer, the Marshal wheeled around and slammed his sword home. It hit the back of Bron’s neck with a horrible crash.
In a plain fight, it would have been a decapitating blow. Fortunately for Bron, though, the two knights were fighting with blunted swords, and his gorget saved him. Even so, there was enough strength behind the strike to leave the younger knight down on his knees, his sword lying in the dust ten feet away. Retching, Sir Bron fought to pull off his helm.
The Grand Marshal did the same, revealing a fair, youthful face sprayed with freckles. Golden hair, gathered in a long ponytail, spilled out and down his back, and a coppery beard covered his chin, the only aspect of his appearance that made him look older than the sixteen he’d been on his dubbing day. He eyed Sir Bron-now vomiting loudly, his dark hair hanging over his eyes-then turned to look at the young knights and squires ringing the battlefield.
“There’s today’s lesson, lads,” proclaimed Tithian, Lord of the Divine Hammer, with a wry grin. “Keep your head, or you’re bound to lose it.”
Laughter rang out across the Hammerhall’s inner bailey, echoing off the labyrinth of yellow walls and battlements, turrets and towers. Half the knighthood was less than twenty-five summers old, and most were untested in battle. Tithian and his lieutenants staged these mock fights regularly to keep the art of arms alive. Now the Grand Marshal straightened his tabard-crimson instead of the other knights’ white, denoting his rank-and wiped a smudge of grime from the burning-hammer sigil emblazoned on his breast. Raising his blade in salute, he walked to Sir Bron’s side and offered his hand to help him up.
Angrily, Bron waved off the knightly courtesy and got up awkwardly on his own. He was a small, lithe man with a face like a horse’s. His cheeks burned red as he wiped spittle from his lips. “I should have had you,” he grumbled.
“The last words of many men,” replied Tithian, clapping his shoulder. “You’re a fine strong fighter, but even the best iron needs refining to become steel. Control that temper of yours, or it will cost you.” Giving the barest of nods, Bron sulked off. Tithian sighed-some men just didn’t want to learn-then turned to face the rest of his knights.
“All right,” he announced, flourishing his blade. “Who’s next?”
The others looked away: at the ground, at each other, at the golden, flame-wreathed hammer mounted atop the castle’s main keep. None of them were keen to face the Grand Marshal, especially after his thorough trouncing of Bron. Tithian couldn’t blame them-he’d hated sparring with his betters when he was young, too-but neither was he going to let them get away that easily.
“Come on, lads,” he coaxed. “If one of you doesn’t fight me, we’ll have a melee instead.”
The young knights groaned. Mass melees always meant plenty of work for the knighthood’s Mishakite healers afterward. They were good training, though; Tithian remembered many such battles from his youth, and no one- on-one duel could prepare anybody for having allies and enemies all around. He fixed his men with a steel-blue glare.
“Well?”
Still the others hesitated, and Tithian almost spat out of annoyance. Things hadn’t been this in the old days, the days of now-legendary men like Tavarre of Luciel, and Marto of Falthana, and … and many, many others. But most of those heroes were dead now, casualties of the war against sorcery, and this was what remained-mostly the younger sons of nobles and merchant lords, sent into service so they wouldn’t burden their families. The burning zeal of the Hammer’s early days had faded to a flicker.
“Very well,” the Grand Marshal said, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “Arm yourselves and form your sides. North and west barracks against south and-now what’s the matter?”
A commotion had broken out behind the crowd, in the direction of the castle’s main gates. The knights were murmuring and shifting, getting out of someone’s way. Tithian caught flashes of white: a priest from the Temple. His annoyance grew-he’d never had a great deal of use for the holy church, even if he
But then his eyebrows rose as Lady Elsa stepped through the crowd. He tried to remember the last time a First Daughter-or any Revered Daughter-had come to the Hammerhall. He couldn’t think of a single occasion.
His men bowed, and Tithian signed the triangle. He knelt to no one, save the Kingpriest himself. “
“Lord Tithian,” Elsa replied. “I come at the behest of the Lightbringer.”
A mutter ran through the knights. Tithian silenced them with a gesture, though he felt his insides clench. Usually, the Kingpriest sent summonses with one of the young acolytes who served as the Temple’s couriers. This was indeed unusual.
“What does His Holiness wish of me?” he asked.
Two minutes later, he was on horseback, riding out through the Hammerhall’s barbican beside the First Daughter’s chariot. The melee would have to wait for another time.
Chapter 2
No one knew when gray sails had become a sign of ill luck, or even why. It was a superstition older than the empire itself, its origins lost to history. The fact remained, however, that Istarans believed gray sails brought disaster, and not without good reason; the last time a vessel sailed into the Lordcity’s port under such colors, the Kingpriest, Giusecchio the Fat, had perished by an assassin’s blade the very same day. That had been nearly a century and a half ago, and in that time no ship-not even those from the western realms, which held no such beliefs-had raised a gray sail within Istar’s harbor.
No ship, that is, until today.
The crowds were thick at the wharves by the time the vessel pulled up to the Lordcity’s marble jetties. They shouted vituperations and forked their fingers at the sailors who jumped over the gunwales to make fast the
