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“Don’t worry,” he told them, eyes twinkling. “I don’t expect you to take the battlements. If you do, though, don’t worry about giving them back.”
It was an old joke, but the men laughed anyway, and Holger chuckled along with them, then grew serious again, turning to the Jolithan priest.
“Father Arinus? Will you give us a prayer?”
The cleric had not laughed, hadn’t even smiled at the joke. His face might have been hewn of stone as he stepped forward, the Scatas and Knights alike kneeling before him. Holger knelt too, as did Loren beside him. With deliberation Arinus pulled off his gauntlets and set them on the ground, then raised his bare hands over the soldiers. Brown leaves, stirred by the night wind, rattled on the limbs above him.
“Jolitho Moubol” the war-priest prayed, “Ricdas Folio, tas lon-fam ciffud e nas punfasom fribas sparud. Couros icolamo du tarn.”
Mighty Kiri-Jolith, Sword of Justice, raise up thy shield and ward off our enemies’ blows. We consecrate our blades to thee.
Steel rang as he drew his sword, a silver blade marked with gold filigree, then echoed as the riders followed suit. As one, they raised the weapons to their lips and kissed their quillons. Then they sheathed them again-all but Arinus, who instead set his against the palm of his left hand. Holger had seen this rite many times before, but he still bit down on one corner of his moustache as the Jolithan pressed the steel to bare flesh, then drew the blade across himself.
A few of the riders groaned as blood welled from the cut, but Arinus’s expression still didn’t change. Instead he clenched his fist, squeezing red droplets onto the rocky ground, then wiped his sword on his surcoat, leaving a crimson smear upon the gold. “Sifat” he declared, his voice betraying no pain.
“Sifat” echoed the riders. The blessing done, they rose and moved to their horses.
Holger stared after them as they rode away, a long dark line wending up the gully’s far side. He wanted to follow, to feel the wind through the visor of his helm as they swept down on Govi
Sighing, he turned and headed back toward the camp.
The tu
The pictures were hard to see in the wavering torchlight, and Cathan had to squint to make out what they showed. Here silver and bronze dragons soared high, locked in battle with wyrms of blue and green. There an army of warriors in antiquated bronze armor battled a foe whose image had long since vanished. In a third place, tattooed, naked savages thrust spears into men in white vestments, hung upside-down from oak trees.
“Martyrs to the god,” murmured Beldyn, regarding the last “You see now why the early clerics chose to build their fane down here.”
Cathan shuddered, staring at the Taoli barbarians’ hate-filled expressions. One wore a scar on his face, similar to Tavarre’s. “They fought against the church and lost,” Cathan said. “Now here we are, their heirs, doing the same.”
“We will not lose,” Beldyn declared, turning away. “They did not have the gods behind them.”
He moved on, and so did Cathan, watching down the passage for signs of danger. None appeared. The silence of the crypt made a thunder of each echoing footfall. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the path ended at an archway, a triangle carved in its keystone. There were words, too, etched by the same hand, but age had worn them away until they were illegible. Dragons had still filled the skies when the arch was new.
Beyond, the passage gave way to steps, spiraling down even deeper into the rock. The stair was narrow, broad enough for only one man, the air above it alive with dust that glittered in the torchlight Cathan swallowed, then pushed past Beldyn so he was in the lead as they descended. He tried not to look as frightened as he felt, but his sword still trembled in his hand, and sweat ran in ru
He decided he could gladly live to be a hundred without knowing the answer.
The steps wound a long way, farther even than the flight that first led them into the catacombs. By the time they reached the bottom, the tu
At the foot of the stair, the catacombs resumed once more, niches and frescoes and all, older even than the ones above. Cathan shook his head, shivering and wondering. What must it have been like for the folk who dwelt here once? What kind of life was it, hiding in tu
“The light,” Beldyn said as they looked down the hall.
Cathan glanced at him. “What?”
The monk’s eyes gleamed, fever-bright. “Light,” he repeated. “Put out your torch.”
This far down? Cathan thought. Are you insane?
He did lower the brand, however, using his hand to shade it, and then he saw it too: A warm glow shone up the passage ahead, more golden than the ruddy torchlight. He quailed a little, then found his resolve and moved on down the hall. The light grew brighter as they walked, and when at last they reached a sharp bend in the passage, it was vivid enough to devour their torch light entirely. He stopped at the corner, his mouth going dry as he reached back to stay Beldyn. Sword tip quivering, he leaned forward and peered around the bend- and stopped, sucking in a sudden breath.
For their fane, the long-dead priests had chosen a vast, natural cave, hollowed out of the earth by countless years of dripping water. The cave was dry now, however. No pools filled the hollows of its uneven floor, and no moisture dripped from the stalactites that jabbed down from above, like the fangs of some immense stone dragon. Carvings of armored warriors and robed clerics marked the many stalagmites and the creamy flowstone that covered the cavern’s walls. Above it all rose the god.
The image the priests had painted on the ceiling was of Paladine, but it was a different Paladine than Cathan had ever seen before. The church favored kindly images of the god: the Valiant Warrior, with his shining armor and noble face; the Dawn-Father, all long-bearded, white-robed gentleness; and the Platinum Dragon, coiled and soft-eyed. The image that glared down at the two of them, however, was stern and fierce, his curly hair and beard raven-black. This was the god’s old face, the one whose followers had conquered half of Ansalon, tamed barbarians, subjugated kingdom and city-state alike to forge the empire. His ice-blue eyes reminded Cathan of the way Beldyn’s had looked at Dista’s funeral, with just a glint of madness in them. He shuddered.
“What is it?”
Cathan jumped at the sound of Beldyn’s voice. “We found it,” he whispered over his shoulder.
They entered quietly, Beldyn staring at the god’s image while Cathan looked about the cavern, searching for the guardian the scroll had spoken about. It had to be close by, lurking in the shadows, perhaps clinging to the wall, or even hanging from the ceiling. Wherever he shone his torch-barely useful now, in the golden glare-there was nothing to see. Hands sweating in his gloves, he led the way into the fane.