Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

“You’re better, stronger, than I expected,” he admitted.

Cathan shrugged. “I taught you everything you know, not everything I know.”

A grin spread across Tithian’s face. Indeed, this would be a good fight. Lightning flashed, striking a distant hilltop with an earsplitting crack, and now he attacked, whirling his blade in a pattern his old master hadn’t taught him. It was a new form, from the Zaladhi school of swordsmanship, and Cathan hadn’t learned it. His blocks were clumsy. Tithian pressed his old master to the edge of the stream.

Finally, his blade slipped through Cathan’s defenses. One of Cathan’s parries was late, and diverted a thrust aimed at his throat into his own left shoulder. It wasn’t a killing stroke, not by a long shot, but it was still first blood, and he avoided a more serious follow-through by leaping back and plunging into the creek’s frigid water. He stood in the water, blood running down his arm.

“Not bad,” Cathan allowed, regarding the wound.

“I’ve learned a few things while you were away too,” Tithian replied.

Cathan raised his eyebrows, then edged out of the stream. His next attack surprised Tithian: It was a perfect imitation of the style the Grand Marshal had just boasted! Now it was Tithian’s turn to back away, blocking furiously. He knew the Zaladhi style well enough to anticipate each thrust, though, and no blow had landed when they parted again.

Tithian dipped his sword in acknowledgement. His arms ached, but he knew he had more stamina than Cathan did. If he wore his former master down, he could press the advantage … maybe knock him unconscious and take him alive. He moved to his right, ducking under a low-hanging branch, his eyes fast on Ebonbane.

“Tithian,” Cathan said. “I have something important I must tell you.”

The Grand Marshal hesitated, just a moment, then shook his head. “Nice try, old man,” he said. “That’s an old trick. You can’t distract me with talk.”

“I’m not trying to. Listen to me, lad-won’t you do that?”

Tithian moved in again, trading blows- one-two, one-two -and then backed off, the two circling each other again, keeping the creek in view.

“Well?” Tithian asked.

“Promise me one thing,” Cathan replied. “When you’ve finished me off, you must leave the empire. Take the Disks and go west. Don’t return to the Lordcity!”

Tithian’s brow furrowed. “That’s ridiculous-why?”

“Because before long, there won’t be a Lordcity.”

One-two, one-two, part.

“What in the Abyss are you talking about?” Tithian asked, breathing more heavily.

“It’s Beldyn,” Cathan replied, also panting as he shifted to his left “What I said back at the keep was true. He’s going to destroy Istar. And not just the city-the whole empire! I have seen a vision of what is going to happen.”

One-two. One-two, one-two , part.

Above, lightning flared.

Tithian blinked, his brow furrowing. There was a gleam in Cathan’s empty eyes that said this was more than just some ruse. “I–I don’t believe you.”

“No, part of you does believe me,” Cathan said. “But you don’t want to admit it. The Kingpriest’s gone too far. The burning hammer will be his punishment.”

One-two . Part. Cathan was bleeding from a new cut, across his upper leg. He grunted with pain as he backed away.

Tithian stared at him. The worst thing was, Cathan could be telling the truth. He certainly looked like he was telling the truth … and Tithian did have reservations about Beldinas’s plan to command Paladine. It seemed a sacrilege in many ways… but wasn’t he the Lightbringer? Hadn’t the gods chosen him? Half of him wanted to believe Cathan, the other half wanted to trust the Kingpriest.

A bolt blazed, striking a tree not far away and turning it into a living torch. The roar of thunder struck his ears like two giant fists. He saw Cathan grimace, too, saw his old master’s knees buckle, and he had his chance. One crippling blow, and he could end this now. He leaped forward, Jolith’s name on his lips.

One-two, one-two, one-two …

Three.

It was the simplest break in the pattern, but it came as a surprise to Tithian, as steel slid home. The two of them stumbled back from each other, letting go of their swords as blood splashed onto the rocky ground. Cathan fell to his knees, shutting his eyes with a groan that came from deep inside him.

Tithian stood still, too stunned to move. “ Palado Calib ,” he breathed. “Cathan…”

Then his mouth filled with blood, and he toppled onto his side.

Cathan gaped in shock. He’d been fighting to stall, not to win. He’d thrust aside nearly a dozen opportunities to finish Tithian, looking for some way to convince him to give up the fight. But the last onslaught had been too much, too fast. Panic had taken over for brief moments. Now Tithian lay beside the creek, Ebonbane buried in his stomach halfway to its quillons. There was blood everywhere, and the rain carried it into the stream, turning the waters a ghastly pink.

The Grand Marshal was still alive. His fingers clutched feebly at the sword’s hilt. His lips, dead white with shock, moved without making a sound.

Cathan found he didn’t have the strength to stand back up. So he crawled over, and lifted his former squire’s head, and laid it down gently in his lap.

“Oh, lad,” he wept, pulling off the Grand Marshal’s helm. He smoothed back the long, sandy hair from the pale face. “Oh, lad…”

“You’ve… learned sssss-” Tithian began to say, then choked off in a hiss of pain. “Ssssome new… things, too.”

“You should have listened to me,” Cathan said, choking on his tears. “I was telling you the truth. You should have listened. I never meant-”

Tithian nodded. “You’re right, Cathan,” he said. “I… should have. I ssssss-see… that now. I see the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” Cathan said.

“Now pull it out.”

It took Cathan a moment to understand. He looked at Ebonbane. “You’ll die,” he murmured.

“And if you… leave it in? How… old will I… live… to be?” Tithian asked with a crooked grin. His teeth were now bright red.

It was true. Tithian might last hours, maybe even days, but the pain would be excruciating, and he wouldn’t survive. He squeezed his old squire’s hand. “First, will you tell me one thing?” he asked.

“If… I can.”

“My sister… what has happened to Wentha?”

Tithian’s grin became a smile. “Karthay,” he said. “A good household there… slave. I saw her board… the ship mysssself.”

Cathan felt a rush of hope. Karthay was as far from the Lordcity as any place in the empire. He bent low over Tithian and kissed his forehead. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Now… end this.”

Wordlessly, Cathan rose to his feet. He signed the triangle over Tithian, adding the horns of Jolith, and the tears of Mishakal. Then he planted his foot on his old squire’s shoulder, and gripped Ebonbane’s hilt

“Farewell, my friend,” he said, and tugged the blade free. Tithian let out a bubbling sigh.

Cathan stood beside his friend for quite some time, unmoving, while the rain washed the blood away.

It was almost dawn when the storm finally let up. By then, the knights were bone-weary and a chill lay on their hearts: Tithian should have returned to the keep by now. So, as soon as morning’s first light broke over the hills, Bron sent a group out to search for some sign of their leader.

It took them most of the day, but at last they stumbled upon the ravine. Bron heard the distant call of the signal horns and ran to follow them. He found Sir Girald and two other knights up-slope from the high-cresting creek. They were standing by a cairn of stones. Bron’s sword was planted at its head.