Chapter 2

The Knights built two pyres the morning after the attack, on the cliff tops overlooking the Hullbreaker. The storm had broken, yielding to gray skies fringed with blue in, the south, and the sea had lost its rage. Gulls wheeled above, and crows as well, drawn .by the smell of the dead. Far off, well beyond the stone spire, the dark speck of a lone caravel plied the waves.

The first pyre was a jumble of driftwood and scrub, thrown in a crude heap. Sprawled upon it, arms outflung and, often as not, eyes staring wide, were the Chemoshans and the stinking corpses who had served them. A few of the death cult's ghouls still twitched, clinging to their horrible unlife. The knights had spent the better part of the night dragging them back from the Hullbreaker, The Church mandated that servants of evil be purified with flame, and so Cathan threw first torch onto the pyre as the company's priests flicked oil upon the bodies. The conflagration leaped high, the trailing black smoke across the sky.

The second pyre, placed upwind of the first, was smaller—Paladine be blessed, Cathan thought as he looked upon it. It was carefully stacked, cut from a stand of goldleaf trees that stood inland. The bodies upon it were more orderly, each laid upon his shield, his hands grasping his weapon upon his breast. The dead knights' eyes were closed, the more ghastly wounds covered with white linen. Here the priests took greater care with the rites of sanctification. They laid blocks of sweet incense among the dead, carefully daubed—each with oil, and recited the Ligibo, the ritual for those who died fighting in the god's name.

"Porasom, usas farnas," the clerics prayed, "e bonasom iudun donbulas, Palado fi."

Go, children of the god, and dwell beyond the stars, at Paladine's side forevermore.

As one, the surviving knights—twenty in all where thirty had stood the night before—drew blade and mace, and raised them high in salute. "Sifat," they murmured.

Here, too, Cathan 1it the first brand. He had lost count of how many men of the Divine Hammer—and boys, for that matter—he had burned over the years. Too many faces to remember, all of them martyrs in the Kingpriest's name. Today, though, it was harder to light the fire. Damid, whose body lay shrouded to conceal how the Deathmaster had ruined him, had been more than just a comrade at arms. They had spent many good days together, drinking in wine shops and laughing at each other's tales. They had journeyed from one end of the empire to the other. Now those days were done, and Cathan felt tired and old. It wasn't like losing a brother, as some men said—Cathan's own brother was twenty years gone, victim to a terrible plague, and that loss was still a thorn in his heart—but it hurt all the same.

"Farewell, my friend," he said, as he set the pyre ablaze.

He walked away, not bothering to look back as the other knights added their own torches to the pile. He went to the cliffs edge, staring out at the caravel with his colorless eyes. The wind snapped at his white tabard, and fine rain began to fall. Sighing, he reached to his belt and pulled forth a talisman of bones and teeth, tipped with a rat's skull. Black sapphires glittered in the empty sockets. He had pulled it from the Deathmaster's neck, as proof the old man was dead. There was still blood on it. Now he stared at it, drawn into its ebon gaze.

Behind him, someone coughed. Cathan started, closing his fist around the talisman, and glanced over his shoulder. Tithian stood there, freckled, shaggy, and gangly. Confronted with his master's strange stare, he flushed deep red and looked down at his boots. The other knights and squires had taken to calling him Sword flinger after the battle. Though Cathan had been only slightly older when he first became a knight, Tithian still looked little more than a boy.

"This war," he said, scuffing the ground with his foot. "It never will end, will it, sir?"

Damid would have laughed at the question, in his infectious way. Just remembering it made Cathan chuckle. Seeing Tithian's flush deepen, he laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is no war, lad," he said. "We fight the battle every pious man fights, to rid himself of evil—only we fight it for the empire. Our task is to keep the darkness at bay, not to destroy it utterly."

In its early days, the Divine Hammer had sought to eradicate all evil in Istar. It remained the knighthood's stated policy, even now. The Kingpriest still spoke of his promised kingdom of eternal light, where the sun would burn so brightly there would be no need for shadow. After so many years, however—so many lives lost—Cathan had found that as weak as the servants of darkness grew, there were always more of them. Perhaps there always would be.

Tithian coughed again, still studying his toes.

"What is it?" Cathan asked.

The squire squirmed beneath his stare. "Well, sir. I mean. It…" He stopped, took a deep breath. "The men say I'm to lie knighted for… for what happened."

Cathan scowled. Those dolts, he thought. I'd been hoping to keep it a surprise.

"Of course," he said reassuringly. "You don't do what you did and just get a pat on the head, lad. When we get back to the Lordcity, Grand Marshal Tavarre will dub you himself." He paused, frowning as he studied the boy's grimacing face. "You're supposed to be happy about that news, Tithian."

"I know, sir," Tithian said. "And I'm glad. But… well, I'd hoped you would…"

Pride surged in Cathan's breast. He'd had four squires before Tithian—all of them knights now, two already dead and burned—but none had asked such a thing of him. Rightly so, too: the code of the Divine Hammer was clear that the only men who could confer knighthood were the order's Grand Marshal and the Kingpriest himself. There was something different about Tithian, though. The boy doted on him. He'd been an orphan when the order first took him in, had never known his father, didn't even have a family name. If Damid had been almost a brother to Cathan, Tithian was nearly his son—and as close as anyone would be, since as a holy order, the Divine Hammer demanded chastity of its members.

Cathan smiled. "Kneel, then."

Grinning like a kender, Tithian obeyed. His mail rattled as he lowered himself to the rocky ground.

"You understand this isn't the official ceremony," Cathan said. "Tavarre will still take care of that. You're not getting out of your vigil that easily."

Tithian nodded, still beaming. Chuckling, Cathan reached across his body and drew Ebonbane. The rasp of metal drew the other knights' attention, and they looked on in surprise as he raised the blade, then set it down on his squire's shoulders in turns—left, then right, then left again.

"All right," Cathan bade, sliding his sword home again. "Get up. You're not a. true knight yet, lad, but you're one in my eyes."

Any wider and Tithian's smile would have split his head in two. Leaping to his feet, he clasped Cathan's arms. "Thank you, sir," he gushed. "Thank you!" He dashed off, back toward the other squires, who were eyeing him jealously.

Cathan shook his head, watching him go. Then his gaze drifted along the bluff, taking in the two pyres, and his smile faltered. He signed the triangle. Tucking the talisman back into his belt, he turned and stared out to sea once more.

The sky was filled with jewels. Diamond and ruby stars sparkled on black velvet. The two moons, disks of chalcedony and sard, glided over constellations Cathan knew well: the Valiant Warrior, horned Kiri-Jolith, the five-headed Queen of Darkness, and still others, each the sign of a god of light or darkness. There, amid it all, was the greatest gem of all: a globe of turquoise, fringed with wisps of cloud. The world. Krynn.

Cathan winced in his sleep, groaning. He knew this dream. It had plagued his sleep since the night before his dubbing. Not a month went by when he didn't find himself floating here, among the stars. Every time, it was the same.

Small wonder it's happening tonight, he thought. Once the pyres guttered out, the cultists' ashes scattered and the knights' gathered into a golden urn to be brought back to the Lordcity, his company had ridden inland, away from the Hullbreaker and the fierce sea winds. When they camped at nightfall, in a copse of swaying birches, the men of the Divine Hammer had all but fallen from their saddles. Cathan had forced himself to stay awake until the fires were lit and the watch set, then had climbed into his bedroll and fallen asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

Now in his dreams he looked upon Krynn from high above, marking the continent of Ansalon amid the ocean's blue. He saw each of its realms: Ergoth, Solamnia, Kharolis…the woods of the elves and the mountain fastnesses of the dwarves…the meadows where the kender dwelt, and the frozen barrens of Icereach…and there, larger than any, Istar the Holy, the Kingpriest's glorious Lordcity shining at its heart.

Now something else. Something behind him, coming closer.

He turned, knowing already what he would see. The burning hammer was as much a part of the dream as the stars and moons, a great flaming mass streaking across the night. It had been there the first time the dream came, the eve of his dubbing. The Divine Hammer took its name from the vision. As Cathan watched, it grew larger and larger against the night. Closer, closer…then streaking past him in a silent rush, close enough that its heat seared him, its light made his eyes sting.

Still he watched it go, fire trailing in its wake, diving now toward the turquoise orb. Toward Istar. It was the god's justice, come down to crush evil from the world. He ground his teeth, tensing as he waited for it to strike, the terrible roar of noise as it fell upon the empire….

"Sir? Sir, wake—"

Cathan's eyes snapped open at once. A dark shadow loomed over him, a hand touched his arm. He sat up, reached for Ebonbane beside him, and had the sword halfway out of its scabbard before the shape resolved into Tithian. The boy straightened up, taking a step back, unafraid. This wasn't the first time he'd woken his master from the throes of the dream.

It was dim out, and cool—it never got truly cold this far north. Fine rain, almost mist, dripped down through the boughs. The sun hadn't risen yet, but it was trying, the sky and everything beneath it gray. The campfires had burned down to cinders, and most of the other knights were still asleep in their bedrolls. Off in the shadows, the horses whickered. In the other direction, Ovinus's low voice chanted. The Revered Son prepared to greet the dawn, such as it was.

Ebonbane hissed back into its sheath.

"Early," Cathan muttered. "What's the matter?"

Tithian tugged at the collar of his tunic. "The lookouts spotted something."

"Something?" Cathan raised an eyebrow.

"In the sky, sir."

That was interesting. Throwing off his bedroll, Cathan rose to his feet. He ached worse than when he'd gone to sleep; but he put it from his mind. His squire handed 'him a horn of wine, warm from mulling over the fire, and he gulped it down as he slung his baldric over his shoulder. Ebonbane bumped against his thigh, reassuring. Tithian offered his helm next, but Cathan waved him off.

"Which way?" he asked.

The boy led him south from the camp, to where the wood gave way to hilly grasslands draped in cords of mist. Two of Cathan's sharper-eyed knights stood just inside the tree line, staring at the clouds. One, an amiable hulk named Sir Marto, glanced back, then raised his hand in salute. He put a finger to his lips as Cathan and Tithian crunched through fallen leaves toward them. His partner, a lean, flame-haired fellow called Pellidas, continued to stare skyward.

"Strange thing, sir," Marto whispered, his voice thick with the accent of the jungle province of Falthana. He tugged at his beard, forked in the style of his homeland. "Pell saw it not long ago. It's been circling ever since. I think it's looking for something."

Pellidas nodded, saying nothing. He had been born mute.

Cathan frowned, looking up. His eyes were not as good as they'd once been. He couldn't make anything out against the slate-colored pall. He muttered a curse. "Tithian, get my farglass," he hissed.

The boy cleared his throat, Cathan glanced at him, and saw the boy already had the contraption he'd asked for—a brass tube with lenses of Micahi glass at both ends. He'd been thinking ahead, evidently. With a sheepish smile, Tithian held out the farglass. Cathan took it, and held one end up to his eye, peering through it at whatever it was Marto and Pell had seen.

There weren't many flying beasts left in Istar. The dragons were long gone, and such—wicked creatures as manticores and wyverns were few, all but unknown in the northern provinces. Perhaps it was a griffin, like the tame ones the elves in the Kingpriest's court kept. Maybe even a winged horse. Legend said such creatures had once run wild on the empire's grasslands and in the skies above. He'd never seen one, and the thought that one of the beasts might be above him now made him shiver. He tracked the farglass back and forth, searching, searching…

Then his lips tightened with irritation. "Jolith's horns, Marto," he said, lowering the farglass. "That's a bird."

"That's what I told Pell," the big knight said, "but he made me look again."

Cathan glanced at Tithian, who shrugged, then looked at Pellidas. The redheaded knight was still watching the circling shadow, the one that had looked to Cathan's eye like some kind of common raptor. Falcons were widespread in Istar, which was why the first Kingpriests had chosen one for the imperial emblem. Frowning, Cathan raised the farglass back to his eye.

He found the bird again and studied it more carefully this time. There was something unusual about it, something not quite right about the way it moved. Its wings moved jerkily, and its tail feathers didn't ruffle on the wind. There was something else, too—an odd glint in the gray morning light. It was almost as if…

"What in…" he began, then stopped, frowning. "Is that thing made of metal?"

Pellidas nodded. Marto tugged his beard. "Looks like it, doesn't it, sir? That's why I thought you might want to see. I'd reckon the thing's magical."

"Good guess," Cathan muttered. Metal birds were something new, although Cathan had heard tales of animals and even men that wizards made of bronze or iron. He shuddered at the thought. He'd never had much use for sorcery. Marto had even less and was biting the heel of his hand to ward against magic.

He gestured to Tithian, not taking his eye off the hawk, and the boy dashed off, back toward the camp. The bird was searching—he could see its head swiveling this way as it wheeled above. He wondered what the mage who'd sent it was up to. Nothing good, he was sure.

Tithian was back before long, holding a crossbow and a quiver of quarrels. He strained to cock the weapon, loading it before handing it to his master. Cathan shook his head, though. "I can barely see the blasted thing from here," he said, and looked to the other two knights. "Which one of you is the better shot?"

"That'd be Pell," Marto said.

Sir Pellidas took his eyes off the hawk long enough to take the crossbow from Tithian, then looked back up, sighting along its length. He licked his lips, tracking the hawk across the sky, tightened his grip, and squeezed the trigger.

The string snapped forward, and the quarrel streaked away. Cathan followed its flight until he lost sight of it—then there was a faint, high clang. Marto laughed, clapping Pellidas on his shoulder; the redheaded knight smiled slightly as he handed the crossbow back to Tithian.

Cathan saw the hawk again a moment later, without the farglass. It was dropping now, plummeting earthward like a spent arrow. He watched it fall, wings hanging loosely. It hit the ground with a thud, fifty paces away.

Ebonbane made it all the way out of the scabbard now. Pellidas and Tithian drew their own blades, and Marto pulled a beaked war axe from his belt. Together they crept out of the trees, toward where the bird had hit.

It was half-buried, having dug a furrow in the grassy earth. Now it lay motionless, one wing snapped off, the other bent out of shape. It was a falcon, Cathan saw, but its plumage was copper and silver, its beak made of gold. Its eyes were yellow gems—sapphires, maybe, or topaz. The quarrel, made of hard steel, had caught it mid-breast and punched out its back. Pellidas nudged it with his boot, then reached down and yanked the bolt free. As he did, more bits of metal spilled out of the hole: tiny, toothed gears and springs knocked loose by his shot.

"Karthayan clockwork," said Marto, who would know. He was from a small town near the fabled capital of Falthana, a rich city known for its tiered gardens and fine tinkers. Some said the Karthayans had gnomish blood, such was their fondness for mechanical inventions.

Never having seen one, Cathan doubted the existence of gnomes. The thought of a race of mad engineers was altogether strange to him. There was no doubting, though, that the bird wasn't magical at all. It was some sort of curious machine.

"Have you seen anything like this "before?" he asked.

Marto shook his head. "Haven't been back to Karthay in ten years, though. Gods know what they've been up to there."

"There's something tied to its leg," Tithian said.

Cathan raised his eyebrows, then looked closer. His squire was right. Affixed to the hawk's leg was an ivory tube, the sort of thing couriers used to keep scrolls safe from bad weather. There was something more—a platinum plaque attached to it. Etched into the metal was a symbol Cathan knew well: a noble falcon, clutching Paladine's sacred triangle in its talons.

Marto roared with laughter. "The imperial arms!" he bellowed. "Branchala bite me, Pell—that's the Kingpriest's toy you killed!"

Sir Pellidas winced, his ruddy face turning bright crimson. Cathan had to fight back a chuckle. "It's all right," he told the mute knight. "You did it by my order."

He tapped the broken bird with Ebonbane's tip, making sure it wasn't going to spring back to life, then bent down and pulled the scrolltube from its leg. Even before he broke the seal that covered the cylinder's cap—blue wax, with the falcon-and-triangle stamped in it as well—he guessed the missive inside was for him. Sure enough, it was.

Cathan, the scroll read—in the Common tongue, for Cathan had never been very good at reading the language of Istar's church—my old friend:

Cathan read the scroll twice, then rolled it up again and tucked it into his sleeve. The Kingpriest was right He cared nothing at all for Marwort The old wizard had seemed harmless enough, had even sided with the empire against his own order a few times. More than a few, actually. But he was still a sorcerer, and not to be trusted. With the Conclave sending a new wizard to take his place…

Cathan's eyes went back to the broken hawk sprawled in the soil and wet grass. He sighed, then turned back toward the knights' camp.

"Bring that," he said to Marto and Pellidas as he strode into the wood, Tithian at his heels. "The pieces, too, and be quick about it. We ride for the Lordcity within the hour."