Chosen of the Gods

by Chris Pierson

  His first thought was the Scatas were attacking again. Whoever led the Kingpriest’s forces would guess the city couldn’t withstand a full assault. Tavarre was also well aware of that fact, as were a growing number of the men under his command—a potential morale problem there. More than just the dead and wounded had quit the wall after the battle. The desertions would only grow worse in the days to come.

  When he flung the door open, he found himself looking at a young Mishakite priestess, a pretty thing of maybe eighteen summers, whose golden hair lay hidden beneath the hood of her blue robes. She gasped as he loomed before her, and he flushed as he realized he’d greeted her wearing nothing but a breechclout—to say nothing of the blade he was still flashing in his hand.

  He lowered the dagger. “What is it? Have we lost more of the wounded?”

  In the aftermath of the skirmish by the south gate, he’d ordered his men to bring the casualties back to the Pantheon. Now the church’s worship hall stank of death and agony as the Mishakites tended the fallen, but there was little they could do for most but give them bloodblossom oil to soothe their pain as they died. Nearly half of the gravely wounded had perished since the battle—among them Vedro, who had hung on for hours, then expired an hour before sunset, brave fellow. More deaths would surely follow, though some would linger for days before succumbing to their wounds.

  The Mishakite bowed her head. “Eight more, since evensong, my lord,” she murmured, “but that isn’t why I woke you.” She lowered her eyes, signing the twin-teardrop sign of her goddess.

  Tavarre frowned, then he knew, with a jolt. “It’s the Lightbringer, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, lord,” the priestess said, nodding. “He has returned. Only he …” She stopped, her sandaled feet shifting.

  The hope that had kindled suddenly in his breast died just as quickly as he looked at her. She would not meet his gaze, so he reached out, cupping her chin and lifting it to make her look him in the eye. “What is it?” he demanded. “Is he … dead?”

  “No, lord,” she said. “Not dead. But…”

  She trailed off, and he had to fight back the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her. “Tell me!” he demanded, his voice rising to a shout. “Tell me what’s happened!”

  Tears spilling from her brimming eyes, she told him.

  * * * * *

  The Miceram shimmered in the candlelight within Beldyn’s chambers, its rubies glinting with crimson fire. It sat upon a cushion, which lay on top of a pedestal in the midst of the room. Neither Cathan nor Tavarre looked at the crown, however. Instead, their gaze was fixed upon the bed beside the pedestal, where the shell of the Lightbringer lay.

  Beldyn’s face was smooth, showing no signs of pain. Bruises darkened his flesh where the dead priests had seized him, and a few scratches on his arms had scabbed over, but he showed no other signs of injury, nothing that would threaten his life. The holy medallion on his breast rose and fell, rose and fell, his breathing was slow and deep, and his hands did not move. He might have been asleep, in the grasp of some pleasant dream—were it not for his eyes. They remained wide open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Though the room was dim, his pupils had shrunk to tiny points. Tears tracked down his temples, into his long, thick hair.

  “I found him like this,” Cathan murmured. “I tried to make him wake up … shook him, yelled at him … even slapped him. Nothing worked, so I carried him out of there, him and the crown, and brought them here. I did the best I could.”

  Tavarre stroked his beard. “You did well, lad,” he murmured.

  Cathan wanted to believe so, truly did, but still he felt sick. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Beldyn should be awake, not in this strange trance. The dying men in the worship hall needed him, and so did the living. He should have walked out of the catacombs with the Miceram shining on his brow, not come slung over Cathan’s shoulder, arms and legs limp, head lolling like a dead man’s. That wasn’t part of the prophecy.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  Tavarre didn’t answer, the scars on his face deepening as he thought. He pressed a hand against Beldyn’s cheek, and Cathan knew what he would feel. The monk’s skin was cold, clammy. Like a corpse, he thought miserably.

  Sighing, Tavarre turned, gazing at the Miceram. He was silent for a long time. Then, brow furrowed, he took a step toward it.

  “What are you doing?” Cathan asked, catching his arm.

  Tavarre blinked, turning to look at him. “We need the crown, boy. Even without him, it may give us a chance.”

  He tried to pull loose, but Cathan didn’t relax his grasp. “It isn’t right,” he said. “Everything that’s happened has led up to Beldyn putting on the crown. Not you.”

  “That may be,” Tavarre said, “but I doubt he’ll miss it, in the state he’s in. Let me go, boy.”

  “No.”

  They locked gazes, glaring at each other. Then, with a wrenching twist, Tavarre yanked himself from Cathan’s grip. Doing so threw him off-balance, however, and he stumbled sideways. In that moment, Cathan stepped between him and the crown, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

  Tavarre’s gaze dropped to the blade. “You’d draw steel against me?” he asked, and laughed. “This is no time for games. I’d cut you to pieces.”

  “Maybe,” Cathan replied and slid his sword from its scabbard.

  He held it low, his gaze hard on Tavarre. They stared at each other. The baron’s hand strayed across his body, fingertips brushing his own pommel.

  “Damn it, boy,” he growled. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Cathan’s sword moved so swiftly that Tavarre had barely begun to draw his own before he felt it at his throat, the last four inches of its blade creasing his skin.

  “I’m not an idiot,” Cathan said, his voice like glass. “I swore to protect him, even if it costs me my life … or yours, lord.”

  Anger blazed in Tavarre’s eyes—then faded. He slid his sword back home, a wry smile twisting his lips. “You have a lot of faith, Cathan,” he said. “I think I liked you better when you had none.”

  Cathan shrugged, returning the grin as he lifted his sword away. “I don’t blame you, but that door in the catacombs opened to him, my lord, not you. If you wore it, your men would fight to the death—but what good will that be, if they still lose?”

  Tavarre opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. It didn’t matter how fanatical Govinna’s defenders were. They were still outmatched, and he knew it. With a sigh, he turned back to the bed. Beldyn remained as before, silent, death-like, his eyes gazing at something neither man could see. The baron scratched his beard again.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  Cathan blew a long breath out through his lips as he sheathed his blade. He walked to the bedside and laid his hand across Beldyn’s lifeless fingers.

  “Pray,” he said.

  * * * * *

  “… and so, Your Holiness, I implore you,” droned the Seldjuki merchant, standing before the throne, “ease the restrictions your predecessor set on the sale of whale oil. My ships lie useless in the harbors of Lattakay. My men idle in taverns, drowning themselves in grog while their harpoons rust. If we can ply our trade freely again, I will send a tithe of my earnings to the church. The others in the whaling guild will do the same… .”

  On and on he went, talking without pause. He was a ludicrous fellow, short and immensely fat, his bushy moustache making him look like one of the fabled walrus-men of Ice-reach. Extravagant jewels covered his clothes, and three peacock feathers jutted from his turban. The scent of ambergris clung to him like thick fog, and his nut-brown skin glistened rosily where he had applied too much rouge. Perhaps, in his youth, he had been a handsome dandy, but now he simply looked—and sounded—ridiculous. Still he prattled, oblivious to the scornful glances of the Kingpriest’s courtiers all around him.

  Kurnos, for his part, had stopped listening some minutes ago, settling back on his throne while the merchant
yammered on. Ordinarily, he would have tried to show patience to the droning whaler, but today his thoughts left no room for the trivial business of the court. Rather, they were far away, roaming hungrily toward Taol. A courier had arrived at the Temple just last night, bearing news from Lord Holger. The army was in place, and the old Knight was certain that when he sent his men to battle, Govinna’s impenetrable gates would fall. By Godsday, the highland rebellion would be crushed at last, its leaders dead, the borderfolk subjugated once more.

  As for the upstart monk, the so-called Lightbringer …

  The pain was so sharp, so sudden, that Kurnos had no time to brace himself. One moment, he was smiling lazily at his private thoughts. The next he bent forward with a grunt, grabbing at his left hand. It felt as though he’d dipped it in molten gold, and the pain got worse with every shuddering breath he drew. He bit down on his tongue, trying to swallow the agony, but could only stave it off for so long. Finally, he doubled over, clutching his fingers and letting out a ragged cry.

  The fat whaler fell silent, his mouth hanging open as the crystal dome flared overhead, ringing with the echo of the Kingpriest’s scream. The courtiers stared at Kurnos in shock. Strinam reacted first, the First Son stepping forward with concern in his eyes.

  “Majesty?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Kurnos growled through clenched teeth. Stefara of Mishakal was hurrying toward the dais now. He waved her off, his face twisted into a snarl.

  It was a lie. The agony was spreading, past his wrist and up his elbow. If someone had offered to cut off his arm with an axe just then, he would have given them the pleasure. He doubted even that would work. The ring would not release its grip so easily.

  With an effort, he pushed himself to his feet and swept the hall with his gaze. It was hard to look imperious with tears streaming down his face, but he did his best.

  “This court,” he growled, his voice shaking, “is … adjourned. We will … resume … tomorrow.”

  The whaler made an indignant sound as Kurnos descended from the dais, making his way out of the Hall. The courtiers watched Kurnos go, whispering to one another as he shoved aside the curtains to enter his private antechamber. He wished them all dead. They would gossip about him, no doubt, while he was gone. There were already rumors spreading, he knew. The blighted rose garden, the dead hippogriff, Loralon’s sudden dismissal from his position—and there were the darker tales of eldritch lights and strange sounds within the manse, late at night. It didn’t matter how much the church strove to quell such idle talk. It still flourished in the wine shops and marketplaces. Now, after the scene in the Hall of Audience, there would be new gossip.

  Kurnos didn’t care. He only wanted to put a stop to the pain.

  Bursting into his study, he slammed the door behind him, shot the bolt, and fell to his knees with a howl. He clutched his hand to his chest, its fingers curled like claws. From the way it felt, he expected to see his flesh charred black, falling off his bones, but it was still pink and unscarred, though slick with sweat—nothing passing strange … except the scorching sensation of the ring.

  The emerald had flared to life, sickly green light dancing from facet to facet. Within, the shadows whirled, like moths trapped in a lantern glass. Amid the storm of darkness, the demon’s eyes glared at him, hungry, eager, wild with blood-lust.

  Say my name! she hissed in his head. Say it and the pain ends. I must have vengeance! Say it!

  “No,” he wept. “I don’t need you. I won’t do it. I—”

  SAY MY NAME!

  The ring flared, and the pain that came with it made Kurnos vomit—on his robes, on the floor. He fell on his hands and knees, sobbing. Flashes like Karthayan fireworks filled his vision as the pain spread through his chest, clawing closer and closer to his heart. He knew, when it got there, that he would die. The demon would rather kill him than be thwarted.

  “Get out, then, you bitch!” he screamed, his throat burning. “Sathira!”

  She burst from the emerald with such force that she knocked him back, sending him sliding across the marble floor. The shadows billowed like smoke from a holocaust, mushrooming up to the study’s vaulted ceiling, spreading down the walls in rolling waves to pool across the floor. Candles blew apart, sending gobbets of hot wax flying through the air. The wine-colored lamp on Kurnos’s desk burst into a storm of glass shards that tinkled onto the floor.

  The Kingpriest lay still through it all, curled up in a ball, moaning as if someone had driven a spear through his stomach. He could only look up helplessly as the demon took on physical form—larger now than she had been, towering like an ogre, all sinuous, velvety blackness. Her baleful green eyes were as narrow as razor cuts as she glowered down at him, and for a moment he was sure she would seize him in her talons and tear him apart. She wanted to—he could sense it—but the magic that bound her held her back. For a long moment she seethed, the fires of the Abyss blazing in her eyes. Then, with such obvious loathing that Kurnos nearly laughed, she bowed to him.

  “Master,” she snarled. “I failed you. The monk lives. Say the word, and I will destroy him.”

  Unsteadily, Kurnos rose to his knees. The stink of bile was thick in his nostrils. He knew her words were a command, not an offer. If he denied her, she would return to the ring, and the pain would multiply until it killed him. There was only one way to end this. He had no choice. Did I ever have one? he wondered.

  Wiping his mouth, he met the demon’s malevolent gaze. “Very well,” he said. “Go. Finish your task.”

  Sathira’s eyes blazed with unholy joy. With a snarl, she streaked to the hearth set into the study’s wall, then vanished up the chimney, leaving the chamber in ruins in her wake.

  Alone, Kurnos slumped, his shoulders hunching in defeat. Weakly, he fumbled at his throat, pulling out his medallion. It felt deathly cold as he clutched it between his shaking hands.

  “Help me, Paladine,” he whispered. “I beg of you… .”

  No reply came. In all of Kurnos’s life, the god had never seemed farther away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Three days passed, and still Beldyn did not wake.

  The rumors began to spread. Some said the Lightbringer was dead, others that he had fled Govinna after Lady Ilista’s funeral. Tavarre tried his best to silence such gossip, but it would have been easier to dam the Edessa. Once the tales got out, they spread like the Longosai and just as dangerous, too. The sentries on the city’s walls began to talk, casting anxious glances back at the Pantheon. Their morale was flagging, and Tavarre could only watch it happen. Even the rumors that cut closest to the truth—that the monk had withdrawn to commune with the god—drained the hope out of Govinna’s defenders.

  The desertions mounted.

  Two young men posted by the city’s western gate snuck away from their posts in the predawn gloom. Their replacements found that stretch of the wall unguarded when they arrived to relieve the pair, and after a furious search the two turned up in a tavern, half-drunk on raw wine. Tavarre punished them severely, stripping them naked and forcing them to prostrate themselves before each of the city gatehouses. As the day wore on, though, more and more sentries quit their posts—more than thirty desertions by sunset. Tavarre couldn’t bring himself to blame his men. They were trapped, outmatched. They had lost Durinen and Ossirian both, and now, seemingly, the Lightbringer as well. It was a wonder anyone remained on the battlements by the following night’s end. Still, many did, the light of belief shining in their eyes. Their watchword became uso dolit—the god will provide—and they spoke it over and over, awaiting Beldyn’s return.

  The rash of desertions continued through the third day, the ranks atop the wall dwindling every hour. That wasn’t the worst of it, though, for that morning, an hour after dawn, a party of outriders came thundering out of the mists, galloping up to the southern gates and shouting to be let in. Riddled with arrows—two, without Beldyn’s healing touch to aid them, died late
r that day from their wounds—they reported the news Tavarre dreaded hearing: the Scatas were breaking their camp and sharpening their blades, awaiting the command to march.

  “It gets worse,” said the lead scout, wincing against the pain of a shaft he’d taken through one wrist. “They’ve built a ram. Cut down a big ironwood, they did, an’ put ‘er on wheels, with a mantlet to cover. ‘Twill sure move slow, but it looks strong enough.”

  Govinna’s gates were mighty and had never fallen, not even in the worst of the Trosedil. But everything happened for the first time, sometime, Tavarre knew.

  “Some of my officers are counseling surrender,” he told Cathan that evening, as the sky outside Beldyn’s bedchamber darkened to star-flecked black. It was a moonless night— Solinari would not rise for hours yet, and Lunitari had just set—and the fire that crackled in the room’s great hearth couldn’t fully stave off the chill. “Better to yield the city than see it burn, they say.”

  Cathan sat at Beldyn’s bedside. He’d barely moved in days, sleeping in a chair in the room’s corner, his sword across his knees. His eyes narrowed as he studied the baron’s troubled face.

  “You’re not seriously considering it, though. Right?”

  Frowning, Tavarre looked away. “A few of us must flee, if we want to live.”

  “Flee where?” Cathan pressed. “There’s nowhere left to run—except the wilds, and winter’s coming. One good blizzard, and the Scatas won’t have to look for us. The storm will do their work for them.”

  Still, when Tavarre left again, returning to the wall with resignation-hardened eyes, Cathan found himself lingering over the idea of retreat. If the soldiers took the city—and they would—then he and the baron were both dead. If the Scatas didn’t kill them where they stood, they would find their doom at the executioner’s sword. He pictured his own head, dipped in tar and spiked above Govinna’s gates, and felt sick. He was sure, too, that a worse fate awaited Beldyn.