Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

All at once, the words died on his lips. Cathan’s hand, which had been resting on his pack, suddenly pulled out the Peripas . The Disks made a musical sound as he raised them, flashing with bright streaks of light. Several knights cried out at the sight of them; others averted their eyes. Sir Bron’s face turned ashen. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing among the crags.

Tithian’s eyes widened. Then he composed himself, keeping his face blank. “I know you have the Disks, Cathan. Why do you think it’s so important that we find you? His Holiness needs them to-”

“His Holiness will bring ruin upon the empire, and the world,” Cathan shot back angrily. “I have seen a vision of his failure. The god showed me long ago, but I didn’t understand then. Now I do, and we’re almost out of time.”

“Blasphemy,” Sir Bron growled again. Lightning flashed overhead. The young knight spoke up fiercely. “You’re a heretic and a thief. Twice-Born.”

“Yes, I am,” Cathan answered, his face set like stone. “But I was a better knight in my time than you will ever be. Any of you-except one.”

He looked back at Tithian, who stared at him ruefully. Above, the sky seethed and roiled. His former squire’s face tightened as he struggled to master his emotions.

“You know what I say is true, Tithian,” Cathan said. “I can see it in your eyes. I told you once that you were a good man-will you not prove it true?”

Tithian stood very still. The knights watched him, confused, awaiting their orders. One word, and they would fall on Cathan. They had been sent; it was their duty. A single tear swelled in Tithian’s eye, dropped onto his cheek, and rolled down, “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “I can’t lot you go. But you were a good knight, once.”

With that, he reached to his belt, drew out his sword and tossed it across the distance, to land at Cathan’s feet.

“I think you’ll recognize my gift to you,” he said.

The blade of Tarsian steel, the golden hilt, the shards of porcelain that once had been his family’s holy symbol of Paladine: Ebonbane. Looking back up at Tithian, Cathan saw a cold determination in the man’s eyes, and caught his breath. Thunder boomed, closer now.

Tithian’s face was as an expressionless mask. “Bron, give me your sword.”

Sir Bron didn’t respond. He, like the other knights, was staring at Ebonbane in open-mouthed shock. Here they had their quarry, unarmed save for a club, and the Grand Marshal had just handed him the finest blade in the empire.

“Bron!” Tithian snapped

Blinking, the young knight looked up. Then he shook himself, bowing his head and proffering his weapon, hilt-first, to the Grand Marshal. Tithian took it, weighing it in his hand, and gave it a few practice swipes. He made a face.

“This,” he declared, “is merely a passable blade. But no matter.”

“No, my friend,” Cathan said. “You don’t have to do this.”

Tithian smiled, sadly. “Pick up your sword,” he said. “The Divine Hammer has its laws, and I must follow them. We will settle this by the trial of combat.”

The storm crashed down on Taol with a fury that felled trees and flooded rivers all across the province. The rain lashed at Tithian’s face, but he kept his visor open, relishing; the feel of it- for the rain washed away his tears.

Cathan put away the Disks, then bent to lift Ebonbane from the ground. “A duel?”

“Just so,” Tithian said. “The stakes are your freedom, and the Peripas .”

“And my life. I will not yield.”

Tithian nodded. He’d expected that, even though his old master appeared a broken man, starved and exhausted. Even Ebonbane could not guarantee his victory.

“And if I should win?” Cathan pressed. “Will you truly call off the search?”

Tithian simply raised Bron’s sword, pressing its hilt to his lips. His gaze remained locked with Cathan’s, who sagged slightly, as though already defeated

“Very well,” Cathan sighed. “But we must not fight here. I do not wish to disgrace Tavarre’s grave with our blood. Let us go to a secret place, you and I, where we can take care of this business with only the gods as witnesses.”

The other knights stirred, and Bron opened his mouth to protest, but Tithian held up a hand to stay them. Lightning blazed, with a great crack of thunder following a second later. Tithian winced at the sound, then smiled.

“Very well,” he said. “I trust you not to try any trickery, Cathan. Lead on.”

Bron followed them as far as the ruined keep’s gate, then stopped when Tithian flashed him a stern look. The young knight flushed angrily, but obeyed the silent command. Tithian was right-the Divine Hammer had its laws, and the right of Ponfobo Ifas , or the trial of combat-was one. Many years had passed since the last time two knights had fought to the death, but the rite remained.

The rain made the path slippery. Cathan moved with the sure-footedness of one who had grown up in such surroundings, and he had to stop now and then for the Grand Marshal to catch up. They went on past Luciel and into the wilderness, sometimes pushing their way through the scrub, sometimes hacking with their swords. The storm got worse; the sky turned the color of charcoal, flaring every few seconds as a new lightning-bolt raged from cloud to cloud, or to the ground. “Let’s avoid the hilltops,” Tithian said. “The lightning will kill us both.”

Cathan laughed and pushed on. They walked for that seemed miles, until Tithian began to wonder if he could ever find his way back to Luciel. Oddly, he realized he didn’t care. He was alone with his master again, one last time. It felt good. Finally, they came to a steep-walled ravine whose entrance was hidden by spruce and hawthorn trees. Within, at the edge of a creek already swollen by the storm, Cathan stripped off his pack and rain-heavy monk’s robes. It left him naked, except for sandals and a breechclout Tithian could see his ribs slide beneath his skin as he stretched, taking a few practice swipes with Ebonbane.

“What if you just let me go now?” Cathan asked. “Say I led you into a trap and then ran away. Your men would believe you.”

“You know I can’t do that” Tithian replied, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t he honorable.”

Cathan drew a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, my honor” he murmured. “All right, then. If I fall, bury me in this place. This was my home, once.”

Tithian glanced around, recognizing the ravine now. Cathan had spoken of it often, when they were master and squire; it once served as the hiding place for Tavarre’s bandits. Beldinas had performed his first healing miracle on this very soil.

They raised their swords in salute.

“ Apodam mubat pucdum ,” Tithian recited.

May the righteous prevail.

Cathan nodded. “ Sifat .”

They stared at each other, each assuming his fighting stance. Above, the sky flickered, and thunder growled from one end of the ravine to the other.

Their first pass at each other was a test, an exchange of four blows-high, low, low, high-each fast but light, not meant to truly harm. The two men parried with ease, instinct driving their moves. Tithian felt exhilaration flow through his veins: This was going to be a real fight, not some sparring match in the Hammerhall’s yard, and while Cathan might not be the warrior he’d once known, still he was a practiced veteran. They parted, circling each other. Pine needles and bits of slate slid under Tithian’s feet.

Cathan came on first, attacking with a sudden wildness that brought a spike of fear to Tithian’s heart. He was forced to give ground, blocking one cut after another. He parried, nearly tripped over a gnarled tree root, stumbled, righted himself, and then parried again. Then, as quickly as he’d moved in, Cathan backed away. Tithian’s sword-arm burned from the force of the Twice-Born’s attack, and he stared in disbelief. Where was Cathan’s strength coming from?