Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

He didn’t pray; the god was with him anyway. He was the Lightbringer.

Buckling on his sword, Cathan walked out the door and into the street. Daylight stabbed at his eyes, dazzling him. He threw up an arm to cover his face, fighting through waves of nausea. You know what to do, the platinum dragon had told him.

Certainty shone in his empty eyes. People stepped out of his path, making warding signs as he passed. He tried not to look at the men, the women, and especially the children. Their fates were sealed, as was his. It pained him to think of their doom: These were not evil people. He made his way down to the lake.

He heard the voices behind him, the whispers and oaths, the sounds of running feet. He had been recognized; the whisperers would bring the ones who hunted him. But he had things to do now, and no way to do them without revealing himself. By the time he reached the wharf, a huge crowd had gathered behind him, following at a distance, ready to run if the Twice-Born should turn on them.

The water was beautiful, sparkling azure in the sunlight. The jade, pillared halls of the palace and temples reflected brilliantly on its surface. Jetties reached out from the shore, rowboats bobbing and bumping alongside. He stared at them for a moment, then descended a short stair down to the water. The dockmaster hurried to meet him, and Cathan untied his purse from his belt and tossed it to the man-and with it, the last few pieces of silver he owned. The man stopped to catch the coin pouch, and Cathan walked past him, toward the boats.

The first crossbow bolt struck the dock directly in front of where he walked, burying itself three inches deep in solid wood. Cathan pulled up short, staring at the quivering quarrel, then turned to face back toward shore.

The crowd had spread out along the stone seawall: Hundreds strong, they stood watching him with apprehension. And there, among them, were the knights-eight in all, their armor gleaming. Four carried crossbows, the rest had maces and swords. At their head, at the top of the stair, was the one called Bron.

“Very well,” Cathan said wearily. “But let’s be quick about this.”

Cathan stood with his gaze fast on the knights, his hand resting lightly on Ebonbane’s hilt. The waterfront buzzed with the promise of a fight and fresh blood.

“If you draw your sword, you will die,” said Sir Bron. “That is a promise, not a threat.”

Cathan shrugged. “What other option do I have?”

“Surrender. Give back what you’ve stolen.”

“And you think surrender would be honorable?”

“Your life will be spared.”

“I doubt it,” Cathan replied. “My life ends today, one way or another.”

Bron frowned, puzzled, then shook his head. “I am warning you, Twice-Born. I have only to give the order, and my men will shoot. I won’t make the same mistake Lord Tithian did, and underestimate you.”

“Tithian was a true knight,” Cathan replied, raising his voice. “He lived, and died, with honor-something your kind knows little about. We had an agreement, and you have violated it by following me here.”

A noise rippled along the wharf, a chorus of disapproval. Bron scowled, feeling the sentiments of the crowd begin to turn against him. They began to mutter words like coward and murderer . The other knights twitched nervously.

“Honeyed words, to mask the poison,” Bron shot back, undeterred. “You tricked Tithian into a duel, then you killed him and fled.”

“A good fight,” Cathan noted. “Won fairly, but not easily … and with no joy in it. Tithian was my friend-that’s why I tarried to bury him. Would a murderer build his victim’s cairn?”

Hundreds of eyes settled on Sir Bron, who shifted uneasily. He kept his vision focused on Cathan. “Your lies will burn you in the Abyss,” he said.

“I am a murderer and a thief,” Cathan shot back. “You said it yourself. How does lying make any difference in the Abyss?”

The crowd laughed at that, and Bron bristled. “You’ll find out, soon enough,” he said. “Now, if you haven’t taken your hands off your sword before I count to three, I will give the order to shoot.”

Cathan nodded, but didn’t move. The knights sighted down their crossbows, fingers on triggers.

“One,” said Bron, raising his hand.

The crowd edged closer, making the boards of the wharf-walk creak.

“Two.”

Cathan tightened his grip on Ebonbane’s hilt. His eyes were white, empty, unblinking. He had seen this in his vision, with Brother Jendle in the Shinarite temple. He felt no fear, no doubt He waited patiently as Sir Bron glared at him.

“Three!”

The crossbowmen fired, all four at once. At the snap of the strings, Cathan jerked his sword from its scabbard and swept it in two looping arcs before him. He heard the blade strike the quarrels, mid-flight… ping! ping! ping! ping!.. and the missiles spun away to the left and right, splashing into the waters of the lake. Ebonbane vibrated, the sword humming softly as he brought it to rest before him.

All up and down the wharf, jaws opened wide. Cathan had reacted more readily, moved more quickly, than seemed possible. Now sunlight flashed off the Tarsian steel in his hand, dazzling all who looked upon it. Even the knights gaped, their weapons drooping in their hands-until the Tsarothans and Plainsmen around them reached in and grabbed them away. Others closed in around the rest, wresting their blades away and holding them steady. Bron jerked as though waking. “Let them go!” he snapped, brandishing his own sword. “Unhand them, or I’ll-”

“You’ll do what?” Cathan asked. “Arrest them? Attack them? The rule is the same here as it is in the Lordcity, Sir Bron. Triogo calfat : the mob rules.”

Bron’s face was the color of wine. His mouth worked, but no words came out. Finally, waving to the crowd, he managed to sputter, “This man… he stole the Peripas … the Peripas Mishakas , from the Kingpriest’s own … from the imperial manse! He killed Lord-the Grand Marshal of the Hammer! He is a criminal, and yet you protect him?”

Cathan saw many heads nodding, but many others shook their heads, and soon the loyalists won out-because they still hoped to watch a good fight. They pulled back from the younger knights, leaving Bron alone, halfway up the steps.

Bron looked afraid. Cathan had beaten Tithian, and Tithian had bested him many times on the sparring grounds. But he was a knight of the Divine Hammer, and he couldn’t deny the challenge. Hand shaking, he flipped shut his visor, then reached down and drew his blade-the same blade Tithian had wielded.

Just as in Cathan’s vision, Sir Bron came down the steps and raised his sword in salute-a grave gesture that the Twice-Born imitated. Old knight and young assumed almost identical stances. On the wharf, the crowd fell still. The sun climbed higher, toward its zenith. The world grew silent, the yearning for bloodshed as thick in the air as it ever was in the Arena. Then…

Bron made the first pass, a high backhand. Cathan’s blade was there to meet it, the clash of steel ringing out across Xak Tsaroth. He riposted, spinning Ebonbane at Bron’s left side, but the younger man twisted out of the way then backed up a pace to avoid a follow-through. He nodded, acknowledging his opponent’s skill.

Cathan gave ground, the wood groaning beneath him as he backed toward the end of the dock. Bron came after him, trying blow after blow, quick as scorpion stings-testing the Twice-Born’s defenses, searching for openings and finding none. They parted again, Bron breathing hard and sweating within his helm.

“Listen to me,” Cathan hissed, his voice just loud enough for the knight and no other to hear. “Everything you think you know is a lie. If I did surrender, you’d still never bring me back to the Lordcity. By the end of today, there won’t be a Lordcity.”