Sacred Fire

by Chris Pierson

  “Get away!” Tithian shouted at him. “Move, or—”

  Again, too late. Varen blinked, looking at him, then shrieked in terror as two tentacles shot down, catching him about his chest and knees. They wrapped around and around, tightening so that Tithian heard the scholar’s bones grind together. With a yelp, the monster jerked Varen off his feet and hauled him up, high above the ground. He fell silent, the breath squeezed out of him so that all he could do was flail uselessly with his fists. There was no breaking the creature’s grip, however—or stopping the two tentacles from pulling in opposite directions. With a wet popping sound, they tore Varen apart was torn in half at the waist.

  Blood poured down, onto the worm’s pallid flesh and onto the ground. Tithian could only stare in horror as the creature crammed first one half of the scholar, then the other, into its greedy maw.

  Someone vomited noisily somewhere behind Tithian. He hoped it wasn’t one of his men, but he himself could taste bile, and beside him, Bron’s face was the color of a corpse’s.

  “Hold,” Tithian commanded, watching the worm, waiting to see what it would do next. Something red and ragged snagged on one of its teeth. Tentacles wriggled in the air like a nest of serpents. Then, with a noise like a deflating bellows, it pulled itself back beneath the ground and disappeared from sight.

  A couple of the priests shouted in joy, but the knights stayed wary. Tithian had taught them well; they knew the danger hadn’t passed. He glanced down at the Lightbringer, still out cold, and waved his men near.

  “Get him up off the ground!” he barked. “Quickly!” They obeyed without hesitation, four of them sheathing their swords to pull Beldinas up and started toward the nearest canyon wall. They were just in time, for the sand where the Kingpriest had lain began to roil like a boiling caldron.

  When the first tentacles broke from the ground, Tithian and Bron were ready. Steel sliced the air, then found flesh; greasy black blood sprayed as two of the monster’s limbs fell on the ground. It made a terrible howling noise, and six more tentacles burst forth, lashing the air. One caught Bron full in the chest, knocking him ten feet through the air to land in a clattering heap next to Beldinas’s fallen chariot; Tithian ducked two more, managing to cut the tip off a third—then grunted in pain as another caught him about his sword arm.

  The pain was excruciating. The monster was doing its best to reduce his wrist-bones to splinters. His sword fell from his grip as the worm began to pull him off his feet. Gritting his teeth, Tithian reached to his belt, jerked a long-bladed dagger from its sheath, and drove it point-first into the tentacle.

  The ichor that splashed his face tasted like rancid meat, and he spat furiously as the beast let him fall back onto the sand. Tithian left his dagger embedded in the tentacle, scrambling to get sword back. When he turned to look again, though, the worm was gone, pulled back underground yet again.

  The priests were clambering up the hillsides now, the stragglers goaded on by his men. Some forked their fingers at the blasted sand where Varen had died, calling the creature Catyrpelio after a folk-tale beast that dwelt in the Abyss and feasted on the blood of doomed souls. Bron struggled back to his feet, wheezing, his breastplate sporting a sizable dent. The knights carrying Beldinas struggled toward safety—then stumbled and fell when the ground again lurched beneath them. One howled in agony as a tentacle caught him and dragged him down under the ground. His fellows could only gape as he disappeared from sight.

  The Kingpriest was down again too, the knights struggling to pick him up. Tithian sprinted toward them, legs burning, half-expecting to see the toothy maw rise up beneath Beldinas’s form. Where was it?

  Then he heard it again, … behind him, on the far side of the chariot… he heard the blast of sand, and the rasping screech it made as it rose up out of the ground … shouts and screams…

  The MarSevrins.

  He turned in time to see the worm towering above Lady Wentha and Tancred and Rath, the last raising his saber to protect his family, brave foolish boy. He managed to take off two more tentacles, slash-slash, but more than a dozen remained, and one smote him in the side, sending him sprawling. Wentha cried out as her younger son fell, then caught the elder as Tancred as he stepped forward, trying to get himself between her and the worm.

  “No!” Tithian yelled, running at the monster.

  Later, when he sorted out his memories of the fight, he still wasn’t sure where the white figure had come from. It was just there, all of a sudden, robes and long beard flying as it threw itself at the worm. Tarsian steel glistened as a sword lopped off three tentacles darting toward Lady Wentha. With a hoarse, bloodthirsty roar, the figure—the man—spun and slashed at the worm’s belly, opening a reeking gash and making it shriek loud enough to shatter crystal.

  “Blossom!” cried the man. “Get back!”

  Cathan.

  A whoop of joy burst from Tithian’s lips as he surged into the fray. He hit the worm from behind, ramming his sword into it, halfway to the hilt. Foul juices gushed out as he yanked the blade free. Cathan cut it again, Ebonbane raking across the rim of its mouth. Then Bron was in the fight, and other knights, spurred on by the sudden arrival of the Twice-Born. The worm tried to retreat, to pull back into its hole, but three different swords blocked it, driven through flesh to pin it to the ground. Tentacles snapped like whips, sending men sprawling.

  The knights kept on, raining down blow after blow on the monster’s hide. Most bounced off, but a few broke the flesh, and its struggles began to weaken. Finally, it shuddered and lay still, tentacles twitching as death crept over it. Sodden with ichor, Cathan ran it through with Ebonbane. Tithian did the same with his own blade, then turned, grinning, to face his old master.

  Age and the desert had changed him, Tithian saw. He was bald now, only a fringe of wispy hair left behind his ears. His beard had grown long, and his skin had turned as brown and cracked as old leather. His eyes were still clear, though—as was his voice as he stepped away from the dead worm and clasped Tithian’s arms.

  “Where in the Abyss did you come from?” Tithian asked, grinning.

  Cathan glanced around—at his sister and nephew, staring wide-eyed from where he’d shoved them, at Rath and Beldinas still unmoving on the ground—and shrugged.

  “I thought you might need some help,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get everyone to shelter before we run into any more of those things.”

  Chapter 5

  The Lightbringer’s injuries weren’t serious, said the Mishakite healers who had come south with the procession. A separated shoulder and a concussion were all, and the knights could carry him onward. The other injuries to the party were even less severe—scrapes and bruises, cracked ribs. Rath MarSevrin complained about ringing bells that no one else could hear. And the dead, miraculously, numbered only two: Varen, and the knight—a veteran warrior named Elecai—the worm had dragged beneath the sand.

  They never found Sir Elecai, nor all of Varen’s body. The pieces they did find, they buried beneath a cairn of stones amid the ruins of Losarcum, near the rosy glass he’d sought on his first journey. With Beldinas still in a daze, it fell to one of the other Revered Sons to speak the Liginon, the final rite for the dead. They doused the cairn in holy oil, as the sacrament dictated, and left Varen in the shattered mansion, now one of the antiquities he had spent his life studying.

  The rite complete, the processional gathered in the length of street that lay at the heart of the ruins. Priest and knight alike tried to catch a glimpse of Cathan, and the strange-silver eyes that marked him as Twice-Born. Finally he had no choice but to withdraw back into the bathhouse that had been his home. Wentha and her sons followed him, and Tithian as well, the Grand Marshal ordering Sir Bron and another knight to stand watch over the entrance.

  Ducking beneath a lintel that had cracked and settled at an awkward angle, Tithian stepped into the vaulted chamber. Cathan and his kin were talking.

  “You’re well-named, lad,” Cathan
was saying to Tancred.

  “You’re the very likeness of our dead brother, who shared your name.”

  The young priest bobbed his head. “I know, Uncle. Mother tells me of it often.”

  “And you,” Cathan went on, turning toward Rath. He studied the younger brother’s swarthy skin, his dark hair and sharp features. “I suppose you are the image of your father. I regret that I never knew him.”

  “You would have liked him,” Rath said. “He was a good man.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the cavern. Everyone looked away, none of them able to meet Cathan’s gaze for long. Finally, Wentha threw up her hands. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Where have you been all this time?”

  Tithian thought he knew the answer, and he suspected the others did too. Still, he leaned forward as Cathan turned away from his sister, and stood silent for a long while. Finally, he sighed, running a hand over his smooth, hairless scalp. “Here,” the Twice-Born said. “I’ve been right here.”

  “But why?” Wentha pressed. “Why hide here, in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Because there was no place to go where people didn’t stare at me!” he answered, his voice turning sharp. “After I quit the Hammer, I wanted to disappear … go back to being just a man, live a simple life, leave the Kingpriest’s endless war behind. I would have given anything to be able to do that.

  “And I tried. The gods know, I tried. I first went back home, back to Taol, Blossom, where we were born. But when I did, all people saw were these.” His lip curling, he pointed to his own eyes, white and empty. “I stand out among normal people like an ogre in a dwarf-hall. I’m different. They fear me, or they hate me, or they revere me … but none of them really see me. Half of them think I’m a demon from the Abyss, for forsaking their precious Lightbringer. The rest think I’m blessed, because I died, but walk again. I can’t live with either.”

  “You could have come to us,” Tancred said. “We would have taken you in.”

  Cathan turned his gaze full upon his nephew. “Yes, you would have—but would you have looked at me any differently? Could you treat me like just an ordinary man?”

  Tancred weathered that terrible stare for nearly half a minute—but in the end he faltered, shuddering. “I—I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “It’s not your fault, lad,” Cathan said sadly, resting a hand on Tancred’s shoulder “I know I’m strange. But do you understand now, why I didn’t go to Lattakay? It’s hard enough to live among strangers who can’t meet your eyes. I could never bear it with my own family.”

  “So you became a hermit,” Wentha declared. “Shut yourself away from everyone in this dead city—”

  “A city I killed,” Cathan interrupted. His voice broke, and Tithian felt hot tears in his eyes at the memory.

  Wentha opened her mouth to protest. Cathan cut her off with a shake of his head. “Don’t tell me it’s not my fault, Sister. It is. This terrible thing happened because I ordered the attack on the Tower. Thousands of innocents died, at my command. In the end, it was the only place I could go that made any sense. Living here, among the dead, has been my atonement. Protecting these ruins from robbers is the only way I can begin to repent.

  “But not any more,” he added softly. “Now you’re here, all of you—and him as well.”

  “We need you, Uncle,” Rath stated. “You must leave this place. Come with us.”

  Cathan studied him, long and hard, then looked at Wentha. She, alone, met his gaze without flinching. “Is this your wish? Or the Kingpriest’s?”

  “Mine,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “I want you back.”

  He smiled, touching her cheek. She turned her face into it, making him cup her in his hand. He nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll go. But for you, Blossom—not for the Lightbringer.”

  *****

  Beldinas regained full consciousness shortly after nightfall. Groaning, he sat up, putting a hand to his forehead as the men and women of his entourage turned to stare, then fell to their knees, murmuring his name. He raised his hands, signing the triangle over them, and was helped to his feet by two knights.

  He asked what had happened, and they told him. He bowed his head at the loss of Varen and Elecai. “Thus it is,” he murmured. “Just as evil remains in men’s hearts, so did it hide beneath the very earth, awaiting us. Let their deaths be a lesson—we must remain ever vigilant for the darkness that lurks out of sight.”

  The knights and priests murmured their agreement, then told the rest of the news. The Twice-Born had come, seemingly out of nowhere, and saved all of them from the spawn of Catyrpelio. Beldinas smiled.

  “Bring him to me,” he bade.

  They went running, and moments later came back out of the ruined bathhouse—Lord Tithian, Wentha and her sons, and Cathan last of all. The old man who had once been the Kingpriest’s champion stopped when he saw Beldinas, and stared a moment before he continued slowly forward. He moved to stand before the glowing figure, making no pretense at kneeling.

  “Your light has grown brighter,” he said.

  “Because of my followers ,” Beldinas replied. “Their faith gives me strength. The victory over evil will be theirs, as much as mine.”

  “Victory?” Cathan echoed. “Victory?”

  For a moment, his face contorted with rage, and the knights nearby began to reach for their weapons. But rather than threatening the Kingpriest, Cathan turned and walked away, his dirty robes billowing behind him. He strode up to the glass-walled manor, then stopped on the shattered portico and looked back.

  “Come. Let me show you the truth of your victory.”

  With that, he disappeared into the manor.

  Nobody moved. All heads turned toward the Kingpriest, who stood motionless, his mood unreadable as ever. Several elder priests shook their heads at the disrespect Twice-Born’s, yet they said nothing, waiting to see how the Lightbringer would respond.

  Beldinas remained where he was for several long minutes, his hands clasped thoughtfully before him. Then, quietly, he nodded and started toward the manor himself. Tithian moved to follow, but the Kingpriest held up a hand without breaking stride.

  “No,” Beldinas declared. “I must speak with him alone.”

  He strode up the cracked stairs and into the shadows of the manor. Within, everything was as Varen had described it: the mosaic of Ardosean, the statuary, the arras … and there, on his right, the wall of glass and the people trapped within.

  “There’s your victory,” Cathan’s voice snapped from the shadows by the wall. “Look carefully, Lightbringer. That’s the cost of your war.”

  The Kingpriest sighed, moving soundlessly across the room. His glow kindled in the glass, making it glisten. It lit the faces of the people within, turning them into pale masks of terror and anguish. As he stood before the wall, his hand reached out, fingertips brushing the glass. Then, with a moan, he bowed his head and began to weep.

  Cathan started. He hadn’t expected this. “Beldinas?” he asked.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t care?” the Kingpriest asked, his voice breaking. “Do you truly think the lives of my subjects mattered so little to me?”

  He reached into the folds of his robes, producing something small and sharp, flashing gold. Looking at it, Cathan saw what it was: the shard Varen’s sell-sword friend had chipped off the wall Beldinas searched for the spot where it had come from, then walked to it and pressed the shard to his lips.

  “I have made mistakes,” the Kingpriest said simply. “I have failed you. This should never have happened.”

  Cathan swallowed, his mouth going dry. Beldinas wasn’t speaking to him; he was facing the wall, and the doomed figures imprisoned within. Tears sparkled like diamonds as they fell from within his aura.

  “This shall be a sacred place, from this day on,” Beldinas proclaimed. “Tens of thousands died, because of our pride … the wizards’ and the church’s. And not just here, but throughout the empire
. Let this be their cenotaph.”

  Gently, he raised the shard and pressed it to the crack. It fit perfectly, and he flattened his hand over it, holding it into the wall. Cathan felt a surge build in the air, making his skin prickle. He knew that feeling, remembered it though many years had passed since he’d felt it last, and turned his eyes away just in time.

  “Ifidud,” said Beldinas.

  Mend.

  Light flared bright, pouring down the Kingpriest’s arm, out through his fingers, into the wall. The glass became a beacon, its warm light washing through the ruined manor. It was cool, soothing, and brought with it the sound of crystal chimes and the smell of roses and rain. The crack vanished, the shard became part of the whole once more. Within the Losarcine amber, the men, women, and child to relax… then collapsed to dust, their bodies freed of the torment in which they had died.

  Beldinas’s aura dimmed as he leaned forward, his forehead pressing against the glass. With a tired groan, his knees gave out.

  Old reflexes took over, unbidden. Cathan was at his side in a heartbeat, catching the Kingpriest as he began to slump. Behind him, he heard the pounding of feet up the portico steps. He held Beldinas to him, feeling the man’s pounding heart, and he shook his head in amazement. Many times he’d imagined what he might do if he and the Lightbringer ever met again. And now… this.

  “Forgive me,” the Kingpriest whispered. “Oh, my friend, forgive me.”

  Cathan held him, his own empty eyes misting with tears, and said nothing at all.

  Chapter 6

  Cathan woke with a gasp, streaked with sweat. It was dark in the ruined bathhouse. A few candles flickered here and there, casting just enough glow to see the sleeping forms around him—his family, Tithian, a few of the senior knights and clerics whose names he’d been told but couldn’t recall. The rest of the party was slumbering in the street outside, and Beldinas was in the mansion, the new holy site he had made with a prayer. There had been other rituals later, the priests insisting the rites of the church be followed: burning of incense, reciting of orisons, aspersing the glass wall. But those were the formalities; it was the Lightbringer who had blessed it, not spice-scented smoke and drops of holy oil.