Leciane looked to Vincil, a hollow in her gut. She couldn’t explain what had just happened, but knew the peace was lost.
“Wait,” the highmage pleaded, holding up a hand. “We had nothing to do with this!”
Across the courtyard, crossbow strings thrummed. Death rained down upon the sorcerers.
CHAPTER 22
Cathan felt the shimmer of magic grow suddenly fierce. He heard the ring of steel, the roar of flame and thunder, the shouts of the wizards and his men. He smelled the tang of ozone, the stink of smoke, but he saw none of it. There was only the Lightbringer.
Beldinas was pale, his eyes shut, his face tight with pain. The dagger-wound leaked warm blood. The Miceram had fallen from his head and lay on the ground nearby. The holy light, which had wreathed Beldinas constantly since he took the throne, had dwindled to almost nothing.
As Cathan stared at him, a hand touched his arm: Quarath, bending down beside him.
“Let me help,” the elf began.
Snarling, Cathan shrugged him off. “Get away.”
“I will not!” Quarath snapped back. “You have your duty, Grand Marshal. Your men need you. I can watch over His Holiness.”
Quarath was right. The sounds of the battle woke him from his stupor. He heard his men crying the Lightbringer’s name, their groans and shrieks as magic lashed into their ranks. He looked over his shoulder just in time for a flash of a lightning bolt to stab at his eyes, half-blinding him. Through the glare, he saw armored figures flying through the air, their armor sparking and smoldering.
He nodded to Quarath. “Take him.”
As the elf gathered the Kingpriest in his arms, Cathan rose and grabbed up Ebonbane from beside Revered Son Suvin’s corpse. Raising the blade, he rushed toward the fight, leaping over the bodies of his men.
Lord Yarns and Duke Serl were there, mace and saber in hand, shouting orders to their warriors. Half the Ergothmen were down, and several Solamnic Knights as well. On the other side, a White Robe and a Red lay dead, their bodies riddled with quarrels. The rest of the wizards, Leciane among them, had fallen back into a tight knot, their hands in constant motion as they chanted spells. Half of these were defensive. The air around them gleamed with enchantment as shields rose to ward off attacks from the crossbowmen. The highmage shouted in the sorcerous tongue, pointing fiercely at anyone who came near. Cathan saw one blast of magical frost shoot from his hands, hitting a knight head-on. The man cried out, then went stiff and toppled, his armor rimed with ice.
“Bastards!” Sir Marto bellowed, shaking his axe. He stood near Tithian, who was clutching his bloodied arm. The big knight’s helm had come off, and spittle flecked his beard. “Murdering, treacherous bastards!”
Cathan ran toward the hulking Karthayan and felt a hiss pass by his neck as a bolt of magic narrowly missed him. He spun, nearly falling, then ran on.
Marto saw him, fire in his eyes. “They’re all dead!” he snapped. “The Kingpriest, the First Son, the First Daughter-these bloody moon-worshippers killed them all!”
Cathan started, his gaze following Marto’s gesturing hand. Adsem and Farenne indeed lay sprawled and unmoving among his knights. Looking at their bodies, Cathan had no doubt that magic had killed them. The First Son’s vestments were still smoldering. The Church of Istar had lost its leaders.
“Merciful gods,” he breathed.
Marto laughed bitterly. “Not today.”
A shout drew Cathan’s attention. Spears lowered, Serl’s soldiers were trying to charge the wizards’ flank. One by one, the sorcerers cut them down, lashing out with darts of green flame. One of Serl’s Ergothmen broke through, however, and a wizard-an elderly Red Robe, already bleeding from a cut across his cheek-jerked wildly as the soldier ran him through. The Ergothman collapsed too, a whip of crimson lightning lashing out from the Red Robe’s body, one last spell that tore him in two as the wizard died.
Cathan stared at the carnage all around, the bodies strewn like dolls and the trees burning in the courtyard. The paving stones were torn into furrows and craters, and even the Eusymmeas had cracked, the statue crumbled and the pool split open. Water spread out across the plaza.
“Tithian!” he called. “With me.”
Slapping his former squire’s shoulder, Cathan ran to where Lord Yarns was marshaling his knights.
“We have to pull back,” he advised.
The High Clerist looked at him with disdain. “Retreat? And sully our honor? I don’t know how things are in Istar, but the men of Solamnia do not flee from battle.”
Serl proved no easier. Ergoth didn’t abide by the Solamnic Measure, but the duke had lost two sons in the fighting already. He nearly struck Cathan when asked to give ground.
“Never!” he raged, though his forces were down to a handful. “Not before I send every last one of those caitiffs howling to the Abyss!”
Just then Vincil summoned a dozen spectral warriors to do his bidding. The phantasms fought well, killing five more knights-four of the Hammer and one of Yarus’s men. Calling on Paladine and Kiri-Jolith and Beldinas alike, the remaining warriors rallied and cut the specters down. The knights tried to penetrate the wizards’ shields and blocking spells, but the ensorcelments threw them back, howling in agony. Helpless, Cathan saw his men perish one by one.
He sent runners to the Hammerhall, but the keep was too far away for reinforcements to arrive in time. Faithful Tithian stayed at his side, and Marto, darkening the air with curses.
The Karthayan pounded on the magical shield with his axe, exhorting the few knights still on their feet, but it was more show than anything else.
Another crossbow bolt got through the shield. A sorceress in white crumpled, a steel shaft in her throat. Cathan grimaced, looking to Leciane. She stood firm, still casting spells at the Highmage’s side. Her face was pale and weary, filmed with a sheen of sweat. She winced, waving her hand as Marto ran forward and struck the protective shield with his axe. Violet energy flared, and the big knight stumbled back with a grunt.
Somehow, she sensed Cathan’s eyes on her. She looked up and met his gaze, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.
Turning, she shouted something to Vincil. The highmage looked at her, then at the one remaining White Robe, a fat man who looked like he’d never fought a battle in his life.
Leciane said something else-then, grimly, he nodded. Raising his hands, he began to weave them through the air, in a pattern Cathan recognized. He knew the words, too. He’d heard Leciane speak them before.
“Back!” he cried, waving his arms. The Solamnics gave ground, shields raised. They were brave men, but no fools. As the silver light of the teleport spell began to swirl, the Ergothmen and the knights of the Hammer also drew back.
All except one.
“No, gods damn you!” Sir Marto roared, rushing the shield like a maniac. “You’re not getting away!”
“Marto, don’t!” Cathan shouted.
The big knight wasn’t listening. The light of Vincil’s spell grew bright, brighter, surrounding him and Leciane and the fat White Robe. The magical shields flickered, then disappeared. Throwing himself into the light, Marto raised his axe and brought it down.
With a rush like wind down a mountain pass, the wizards were gone. As the light burst, the men turned away. Some shrieked in terror, thinking the spell would destroy them-but the glittering energy passed over them harmlessly, washing across the courtyard. Cathan let out a groan when he saw Marto standing alone, where the mages had been. The big knight smiled as he raised his empty right hand. Of his axe, there was no sign-but blood dripped from his fingers.
“I did it,” he exclaimed, beaming. “I got the son of a bitch.”
Leciane’s stomach dropped away as Vincil’s spell flung her across the world. She had thought he would send them back to the Tower at Istar, but the Highmage had chosen Wayreth instead. She could see his study in the distance, as if through a spyglass, moving toward her with the speed of a charging dragon.