Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  The villagers were exhausted from hours of hard marching, but now a ragged cheer broke out as they beheld the bridge. A few bandits joined in, raising their swords in the air.

  “Is that it, Cathan?” Wentha asked. “Are we going to be safe now?”

  He looked up at where she sat, astride his horse. He’d given it to her to ride, jogging alongside the whole time. He wanted dearly to tell her yes, everything would be all right, but glancing at Beldyn, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. The monk’s face was drawn, weary. Even if the god had given him the power to destroy the bridge, would he have the strength to wield it? Cathan bit his lip.

  Now he heard it, a new sound, rising above the murmur of voices and the wind’s whistling: a low, ominous rumble coining from behind them. Hoofbeats. Freezing with dread, he turned and looked back down the slope, half-expecting to see hundreds of blue-cloaked Scatas bearing down on them. He didn’t, although what he did see did little to raise his spirits either: the bandits’ lookouts, lashing their horses as they thundered up the hill.

  Tavarre and Gareth wheeled their steeds, cantering back to meet them, so the villagers wouldn’t hear their breathless report. It was needless, though. The scouts’ flushed faces and the glisten of blood on one man’s arm told them enough. An uneasy murmur rippled through the mob as the baron came around and started back toward them. His scars seemed like canyons, cutting through his glowering face. “Get to the bridge,” he told them. “Move!” The villagers didn’t need to hear more. Their weariness forgotten, they surged forward again. Those with the strength broke into a run. Others glanced back, but still there was no sign of pursuit. Cathan could feel it now, though, shaking the ground beneath him: the hammering of hundreds of hoofs, and the shrill of war-horns with it.

  Legs burning, he looked up at Wentha. His sister was white with fear, clutching the saddle horn. Then he looked at the distance to the bridge, and clenched his teeth. They still had nearly two miles to go. Swallowing, he drew his sword.

  “Cathan!” Wentha shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ll be all right,” he said, hoping it wasn’t a lie. “Blossom, listen. I want you to ride ahead without me. Don’t stop till you’re past the bridge.”

  She shook her head, her eyes filling with fear. Before she could say a word, though, he slapped the horse on its rump with the flat of his blade. Whinnying, it pelted down the path as Wentha clung to its reins. Cathan’s throat tightened as he watched her go.

  The bridge crept closer, the slowness of it terrifying him. Despite shouting from Tavarre and Gareth to move faster, many of the refugees could only manage a limping walk. They were too spent to manage more. The armored statues loomed, frowning at them. They dwarfed the first riders—Wentha among them—as they passed them by, clattering over the arch as fast as their horses would carry them. Cathan tried to keep focused on them, but his gaze kept drifting back over his shoulder, seeking some sign of the soldiers. The hammer of their horses’ hooves grew to a roar, echoing among the hills. Again and again, though, he didn’t see them.

  Until, finally, he did.

  He faltered, his skin growing cold as he looked back up the hill-shoulder. A row of blue-caped riders stood their horse atop it, their bronze helmets glinting in the sun. As he watched, they raised their swords and spears, shouting a chorus of wild war cries, and then they plunged down the slope toward the refugees’ poorly guarded rear. Cathan turned back to the bridge. The first few villagers on foot were crossing now, urged along by Beldyn and Lady Ilista. The span was narrow, though, and quickly a mob formed, shoving and clamoring to be the next across the gorge.

  They would never make it, Cathan realized. The riders were too close. He spat a curse.

  “Baravais, Kharai!” roared a voice just then. “Men of Solamnia, to me!”

  Turning, Cathan saw Sir Gareth waving his sword, riding back through the press of villagers. Hearing his call, the other Knights converged on him, forming a small knot at the rear of the throng, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. Gareth spoke to them, then as one they nodded, lowered their visors, and rode back toward the Scatas.

  “Wait!” Cathan cried. He stopped in his tracks, turning to run after the Knights. “What are you doing?”

  Hearing him, Gareth twisted in his saddle and shook his head. “This isn’t your fight, lad.”

  “But … there’s only six of you, and there’s—” Cathan broke off, waving at the onrushing horsemen.

  “Yes,” Gareth said, “and Draco Paladin willing, it will be enough.”

  Their eyes met through the slits of his helmet, and Cathan saw a determination that made him pull up short. He had never seen a man glad to die, but here it was. He couldn’t know for sure because of the helmet, but he felt certain the Knight was smiling. Eyes stinging with tears, he turned around again and ran back toward the bridge.

  * * * * *

  Ilista was standing beneath a looming statue, urging villagers across the chasm, when she heard the first clash of steel on steel. She turned, already knowing what she would see. She’d heard Gareth call to his men, and had known his intent. Even so, a gasp racked her throat when she beheld the Knights.

  They had spread out across the path, the thinnest of floodwalls against the torrent. Now they fought, their blades flashing as they met the Scatas’ vanguard. Sword rang against sword, scraped across shield, glanced off armor as they braced themselves, holding back the deluge. As she watched, several soldiers toppled from their saddles, badly cut or run through, and the rest stopped, held back by the Knights’ furious onslaught.

  It couldn’t last. The Scatas’ officers bawled at them, shouting furious orders, and quickly the soldiers firmed up, their ranks closing once more. They came on again, swords rising and falling, spears thrusting with vicious precision. Gareth’s men held firm, but even so they soon suffered their first loss: a red-haired Knight of the Crown who took a spear through his breastplate, then collapsed with a crash. His fellows didn’t pause, though: quickly the Knights spread out further, evening the spaces between them.

  Watching, Ilista felt a rush of emotion—admiration, dread, sorrow, guilt. Another Knight went down, his neck pouring blood where a Scata’s sword had nearly severed it. The others spaced out again, spreading even further. It was too little now, though, and the line started giving ground, fighting with redoubled fury as they backed their horses toward the bridge.

  Someone caught her arm, snapping her back to her senses: Tavarre. His eyes were alive with stubborn fire. “Your Grace!” he exclaimed. “You must get across! I’ll keep people moving here—go with Beldyn!”

  He pointed, and she looked. While she’d been watching the battle, the young bandit—what was his name?—had gotten to Beldyn and was escorting him across the bridge, surrounded by throngs of villagers. Swallowing, she signed the triangle over Tavarre. He pushed her away, propelling her after the monk.

  Quickly she reached the bridge and began to follow Beldyn and the young bandit. Halfway across, she looked over the bridge’s crumbling rail, then quickly away. The gorge was deep, the foaming Edessa so far below that it seemed a white line tumbling among the stones. The wind gusted across the bridge, flapping her robes, threatening to fling her out into the void. She shut her eyes a moment, taking deep breaths, and pushed on to the chasm’s far side.

  When she reached it, she glanced back. Only three Knights remained, fighting furiously as they backed toward the gorge. She shook her head at the sight, wondering how Gareth and his men could stand before the press at all.

  Beldyn was to her left, waving from where he stood with young Cathan—that was his name!—at the foot of the statue that had completely fallen to ruin. Bits of rubble overgrown with moss and ivy lay scattered about the carved warrior’s feet. He gestured, beaming, and she went. Beldyn’s eyes were shut, his face blank, and he clutched his medallion in his hand.

  “You must be my eyes, Efisa,” he said. “Tell me when to act.” Bowing his head, he
began to pray.

  Ilista wasted no time. Hitching up her robes, she climbed onto the shattered statue’s pedestal and looked back. The last of the refugees were on the bridge now, clumped together as they made their way across. Tavarre and Vedro brought up the rear, shouting obscenities and waving their arms as they herded the villagers along.

  Farther on, she saw a flash of sunlight on armor as Sir Reginar fell before the Scatas, dropping to his knees with a sword wound in his side, then vanishing into the press. Sir Gareth, the bravest and stoutest, was alone now, almost at the chasm, battling furiously. His horse was gone, and his armor was awash with blood, though she couldn’t tell how much was his enemies’ and how much his own.

  “Be ready!” she called to Beldyn.

  Somehow, Gareth held the bridge. His sword snapped as he parried a slash from a Scata, and the blade glinted as it tumbled into the gorge. He didn’t seem to notice—undaunted, he fought on with the weapon’s broken stump. His shield, battered and gashed, finally split in two. He flung the pieces at the riders then drew a dagger from his belt.

  “For the Lightbringer!” he bellowed, and hurled himself at the soldiers with the last of his strength.

  Then he was gone.

  Ilista stared, horrified, as Gareth disappeared among the Scatas. Shaking, she looked to the bridge. The last of the refugees were stepping off the span now, Tavarre and Vedro shoving them onto solid ground. The first of the Scatas started across, a thicket of spearheads extended before them. Ilista swallowed, touching her medallion.

  “Now, Beldyn!” she cried.

  At once, the young monk opened his eyes. Blue fire danced within them as he flung out his right arm, then he raised his voice in a shout that lashed the air like a thunderclap.

  “Pridud!” he cried. Break!

  A rumble shook the ground, startling the villagers and making the Scatas’ horses rear. The bridge shuddered, dust and chips of stone showering into the chasm. The noise of the tremor echoed among the hills, like the growl of some long-vanished dragon.

  Sparks flared from Beldyn’s fingertips as he turned his outstretched hand palm upwards. “Pridud!”

  The earth trembled again, louder and harder. On either side of the chasm, men drew back, shouting in terror. The headless statue collapsed altogether, tumbling into the gorge, and spider-web cracks spread across the bridge, shaking flagstones loose. The soldiers on the span turned, desperate, trying to flee to their fellows.

  With a snap, Beldyn’s fingers curled into a fist.

  “PRIDUD!”

  The silver light flared around Beldyn, blossoming from his hand to engulf him, then flashing outward in a rippling wave that struck the bridge like a dwarf-smith’s hammer. As it did, the ground shook so violently Ilista had to clutch to the ruined statue’s ankle to steady herself. Everywhere, men and women stumbled and fell. The bridge bucked, twisting horribly as more and more cracks widened all over it. The Scatas all but hurled themselves back toward solid ground beneath Beldyn’s holy fire.

  With an awful rending sound, the bridge burst asunder, sending stones and soldiers and horses alike thundering into the frothing river below. At the same time, Beldyn began to fall as well, his knees buckling as Cathan reached out and grabbed him, easing him to the ground.

  * * * * *

  The refugees walked on as the sun disappeared behind the Khalkists, the first stars agleam in the darkening sky. They moved slowly, their pursuers left behind, stranded by the bridge’s collapse. The deaths of the Knights weighed heavily on them all.

  The villagers looked to Beldyn with deeper awe than before. They had seen him heal; now they had seen him destroy. Too, they had seen what it cost him, for the shrouding light did not go away. It still shone brightly, like a second silver moon come to earth. He rode in a daze, head bowed, and did not look up. Several times he slumped and would have fallen, had Cathan not been at his side to bear him up.

  Still he rode, refusing to stop, and so the borderfolk followed him, fighting through their own weariness to keep going well into the night, finally halting in a narrow cleft, out of the frigid wind. Huddled around smoldering fires, they ate a meager supper, then fell into restless slumber.

  Not everyone found rest, however. Ilista sat alone on a boulder outside the camp, staring skyward, where dark clouds scudded, blurred by her tears. She had tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she saw Sir Gareth, standing defiantly before the bridge, his broken sword ablaze with sunlight. Again and again she watched him fall, the Lightbringer’s name on his lips. He had given his life, died with honor, but only the people in her ragged band would ever know. The word that went back to Istar would be that he’d fallen protecting traitors and bandits from the iron weight of the law.

  Who is to say that isn’t true? she wondered, shaking her head. Kurnos is the crowned Kingpriest—Symeon named him so. Who am I to act against him?

  “You are my servant,” said a voice, “doing my will.”

  Starting, Ilista rose to her feet. There was someone there, in the darkness, a shadow against the night. She drew back, reaching for her mace—then stopped, realizing she’d left the weapon at camp.

  “Who is it?” she hissed. “Show yourself!”

  He did, stepping close enough that she could make him out in the moonlight, a fat man in a white habit, a smile brightening his florid face. It was Brother Jendle, the monk she had dreamed about, these many weeks ago, in her room in Istar.

  “I apologize, Your Grace,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She didn’t—couldn’t—move, but only stared with her mouth open. His eyes sparkled with starlight.

  “You’re having doubts,” he noted, “after what happened today.”

  She blinked back tears. “Sir Gareth—he was sworn to protect me.”

  “He did. If he hadn’t held the bridge, the soldiers would have caught you. I wish things could have been different, but Sir Gareth did what was right. We should not mourn those who die fulfilling their purpose in this world.”

  Ilista looked away, out into the dark. What purpose? she wanted to rail. What are we doing? What are we? A small, hungry band of ruffians, with both the church and the imperial army arrayed against us. How can we stand against the might of Istar? How do we know we’re even right to try it?

  “Damn it, Paladine,” she whispered, “what do you want of me?”

  When she looked back, though, the monk was gone.

  She stayed on the boulder until the silver moon set. Then she returned to camp. When she slept at last, Ilista did not dream.

  Chapter Eighteen

  TENTHMONTH, 923 LA.

  The hippogriff cocked its head as it peered at the hunk of raw meat, its raptor’s eyes peering intently in the light of late afternoon. Its feathered tail twitched as it pawed the grassy earth with a forehoof. Its hooked beak opened and closed hungrily.

  “That’s right,” Kurnos murmured. “Supper’s here. Now come take it, you blasted wretch.”

  He’d had the meat torn from the hindquarters of an antelope his cooks were preparing for the evening banquet. Its bloody scent filled the air as he stood within his rose garden— bloomless still, more than a month after Symeon’s death—facing off against the hippogriff. Since his coronation, the beast had steadfastly refused to come near him, though he knew it to be docile. The old Kingpriest had fed it from his hand, but around Kurnos it held back, no matter what he did. Now it finally seemed to be overcoming its reluctance and took a step toward him as he stood still, the meat dangling from his hand.

  It ought to have. He’d been starving it for days.

  He couldn’t say why it was important that the hippogriff accept him, but that made it no less true. Certainly the imperial court had accepted him—once he’d gotten rid of the last dissenters, of course—and the folk of the Lordcity shouted his name in praise whenever he emerged from the Temple. When he’d attended a recital by a renowned Dravinish dulcimist last night at the Arena, the cit
izens had applauded louder for him than they had for the musician. Indeed, all the empire seemed to have little objection to his fledgling rule—except the bandits in Taol, of course, and the army would deal with them soon enough.

  The hippogriff was another matter entirely.

  It edged closer, head held low. He shook the meat a little, and the beast froze, watching him warily. Kurnos held his breath, leaning forward. Take it, damn you, he thought. Take it, or we’ll be dining on more than antelope tonight.

  Nothing moved. Somewhere in the gardens, someone laughed at an unheard joke. A gobbet of fat dropped from the meat into the grass. He looked down, watching it fall … then, in the instant of distraction, the hippogriff made its move.

  Its wings—clipped since it was a foal to keep it from flying away—spread wide, and it reared back on its hind legs, letting out a whickering hiss. Kurnos gaped as it towered above him, at the forehoofs churning the air. He envisioned them coming down on him, breaking bones, maybe even cracking open his skull. With a shout he leaped back, tripped over his robes, and fell, sprawling in the grass as the hippogriff came down again. The meat fell from his hand, and he reached for it quickly—but not quickly enough. The beast’s head darted forward with the speed of a striking snake, and it snatched up the morsel in its beak, then wheeled and galloped away to the far side of the garden.

  Kurnos watched it go, hate brimming in his eyes. If he’d had a bow at hand, he’d have shot the animal dead. Instead, he took off his sandal and hurled it, but the throw fell far short. The hippogriff pranced, wolfing down the meat with three quick bites. Kurnos growled a curse as he pushed himself to his feet. At least no one had seen the humiliating scene, he told himself. He was alone in the garden.