Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

And then he shook his head, clearing thoughts such folly from his brain. Folly, that was all it was: folly and nerves, brought on by too many nights on the Twice-Born’s trail. His mind was muddled, and each thought came to him as though he were slogging through a swamp. He had been here, at the keep formerly belonging to Lord Tavarre-once the baron of this vale, who had gone on to become the Divine Hammer’s first Lord Marshal-for five days. He’d sent most of his men out to search the roads, but he’d kept a few here with him, at Luciel.

Conno cun polbit , the proverb went. Conno prum soidit

The poor hunter chases. The good hunter waits.

As he and his men had galloped across the plains of Ismin, he’d decided that his particular quarry would end up here. His gut told him, and told him this clearly. But Cathan had not yet come, and the other knights were beginning to doubt their leader’s instincts. They grumbled to one another when they thought Tithian wasn’t listening, exchanged pointed glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. They were sure Tithian had been rashly mistaken, and he was beginning to believe that too. The Twice-Born wasn’t coming to Luciel-and, in a way he would never care to admit, part of Tithian hoped he never would. It would be easier, in some ways, if Cathan simply vanished, and no one ever saw him again.

Sighing, Tithian glanced away from the vale below the keep and looked down into the courtyard behind him. The knights’ camp stood amid the rubble that had once been the manor house, and three of them were huddled there, keeping out of the ceaseless wind. To one side he spotted Sir Bron, trapping near the graves at the yard’s edge of what had been Lord Tavarre’s household; his family had been plague-dead before the Lightbringer arrived. A fresher mound stood beside them: Tavarre himself had been returned here twenty years later, to join his kin.

Bron glanced up, his gaze meeting Tithian’s, and he raised an eyebrow in question. Then he made a stoic face when the Grand Marshal shook his head. He had proven a good choice as second on this mission, for Bron had grown steadfast since the massacre at the Forino , and his loyalty helped keep the other knights in line. But Tithian knew that this mission was taking its toll, and surely the strange sky troubled Bron as well.

Tithian was just turning away when the call sounded: a sharp, rising whistle, a noise like that made by one of the bluefinches that lived in the highlands. The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect, and he clapped a hand to his sword as he stared out toward a fair-haired, sharp-eyed knight named Sir Girald, whom he’d posted at watch atop a half-collapsed watchtower. Girald was clambering down from his purchase, and moving with reckless speed across the wall to salute before Tithian. Bron and the other knights ran across the courtyard, their faces eager.

“One man,” gasped Girald, his face flushed with excitement. “On foot, alone. I think it must be him, milord!”

Of course it’s him , Tithian thought. Who else would he out here, in this forsaken place? He felt an odd twinge of disappointment that this confrontation would have to happen after all. The wind stinging his eyes, he stole a glance down into the valley. There was indeed a shape moving down there, blurred by distance.

“Down,” he whispered.

He and Girald descended a flight of age-worn steps into the courtyard. The rest of the knights had gathered-six in all, with weapons ready-and met their commander at the bottom. “Milord?” Bron asked. “What are your orders?”

“We do as we discussed,” Tithian replied, gesturing around him. “To your places, and wait. Let him come to us, then move when I give the signal. And no crossbows-this is a former knight, not some Sargonnite heathen. If it comes to fighting, we will do so with honor. Any man who feathers him loses his spurs.”

This earned more muttering and eye rolling. Most of these knights had no personal experience of Cathan MarSevrin. They didn’t know him like Tithian did.

The plan was simple. When Cathan arrived at the keep- for Tithian had no doubt that he would never leave Luciel without visiting Tavarre’s burial place-the knights would be hidden among the rubble. The moment he knelt by the grave, the ambush would begin. Tithian offered a silent prayer to Paladine that Cathan would be sensible and surrender, but an itch in his mind told him otherwise.

Bron took charge with admirable efficiency, urging the men to their appointed cover. The two youngest knights moved quickly about the courtyard, scattering gravel and pine needles to cover their tracks. Then they, too, hid themselves away. Tithian and Bron went last, perching in prime spots by the keep’s toppled north wall nearest the cemetery. The rain spat in the groaning wind, beneath the horrible sky. Silence covered the old fort like a shroud.

Then, softly, came footsteps, scuffing against stone. A mad urge rose in Tithian to jump up and tell his former master to run; confused, he fought it down. This was the Kingpriest’s will, and he was sworn to carry out the Lightbringer’s orders. To his left, Bron silently loosened his sword in its scabbard.

Cathan came closer. Now Tithian could see him, through a crack in the stone: an old, hooded, road-weary man with a wooden cudgel dangling from his belt. If not for the glimpse he had of white, empty eyes, Tithian never would have recognized his old friend. He watched as the Twice-Born walked to the stone marking Lord Tavarre’s grave. Cathan pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head spotted with age marks, and a face gaunt and lined with suffering. A sad smile appeared amid his ragged beard. “Come out, Swordflinger,” he said aloud. “Your men, too.”

Cathan had heard them among the rubble-the soft jingle of mail behind the ragged stub of a wall. He knew Tithian well, could guess that he might have raced to Luciel to wait for him. Yes, there, in the shadows by what had once been a statue of one of Lord Tavarre’s ancestors-now shreared from the waist, its legs cloaked in ivy. Cathan held up his hands, keeping them away from his cudgel.

“I know you’re there,” he said. “I have smelled you and heard your bluefinch call.”

“And still you walked into our trap.”

Tithian rose from his cover with the barest trace of a sheepish grin. Another half-dozen knights stood up around him. Swords hissed from their scabbards and in an instant, he was ringed in steel. Tithian, however, did not draw his own blade. Cathan wondered whether that was a good sign or not.

“There’s no way out,” the Grand Marshal declared.

Cathan shrugged. “You could let me go.”

A couple of the younger knights laughed, their voices thick with scorn, Cathan ignored them. Tithian frowned in irritation.

“You know I can’t do that. The Kingpriest ordered me to take you… one way or the other.”

Cathan sighed, lowering his hands. “The Kingpriest gives many orders, Tithian. He ordered us to Losarcum, remember? Would you have obeyed, had you known what would come of that disastrous day?”

“The defeat of the wizards, you mean?” sneered a young knight beside Tithian. Cathan struggled to remember his name: Bron. “I for one would have obeyed, though it cost my life. The gods will reward me in the afterworld.”

“You assume it was the god’s will.”

“ Assume ?” Sir Bron echoed, flushing angrily. “The Lightbringer is Paladine’s voice!”

Cathan shook his head. “No. No. Beldinas makes his own voice, and no other.”

A rumble came from the knights. “Blasphemy!” exclaimed Sir Bron. “How dare you-”

“Bron. Be still,” Tithian ordered. The young knight’s eyes widened, but he swallowed any farther tirade. “Cathan, I can’t let you go, in spite of our old friendship. The Kingpriest would brand me a traitor. I’d lose my knighthood, my holdings … I’d be lucky if he didn’t declare me Foripon . Surely you understand-”